


Seed and Stone

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:31:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: And he finally understands how the smell of wood smoke in the winter air might bring someone to tears who’s homesick, how Marco has been homesick; but Jean knows that he is also home to Marco.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MonoclePony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/gifts).



> Thank you very much to Lars for this commish! She asked for giggly sex while introducing someone as the new boyfriend after maybe being the friend beforehand, but this got a little longer than I first planned. c: I hope you like it!

It’s been awhile since Jean took time off from his new job, and sitting on a train that’s about to depart to Jinae is a bit surreal. However, as the train slowly starts to pull out of the station, he feels a sort of pleasant nostalgia at the slight jerk and hiss of the locomotive, especially when he looks over at Marco who is dozing off on the seat across from him.

Jean has taken the train dozens of times with Marco to his sleepy hometown of Jinae, where his family picks them up from the same station in a battered old pick-up truck, neither of which have seemed to change since college. Then, they drive out to the substantial Bodt property—what Jean considers to be the absolute middle of nowhere—but it’s beautiful, replete with an apple orchard, ducks, a dog, and three horses.

The first time Marco had asked Jean if he wanted to go home with him was after they were assigned to be freshman college roommates, and it was somehow revealed that Jean planned to stay on campus during the short holiday break since Trost was more than a few hours away. 

Looking back now, nearly ten years later, it’s rather endearing to remember Marco as an unsure freshman trying to navigate Jean’s bad attitude. 

When he’d asked Jean if he wanted to go to Jinae for Thanksgiving, since Jean had spent the week leading up to the holiday claiming with bravado that he hated turkey (in reality, he was trying to avoid thinking about his mother being at home alone), Jean had assumed it was out of pity.

He’d said as much, spurning Marco’s offer; then was won over when Marco just rolled his eyes and said curtly that he didn’t invite friends to his parents’ house out of pity.

No one ever invited Jean anywhere—much less called him a friend, or called him out on his shit, plain and simple, without vitriol. It was the first time he’d ever felt apologetic.

He’d accepted the invitation and mumbled an apology, and was so swept up in the warmth of Marco’s rather large family as soon as they arrived, he hadn’t had time to be cranky or defensive. 

By sophomore year, they’d become best friends. 

Jean ended up going home with Marco frequently after that, even eventually for “party” holidays like Halloween. He’d never thought he’d prefer a hayride with kids over a raucous college party with hot girls and rowdy drinking games, but Marco—as usual—had changed his mind without even trying.

“Hey.” Marco’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and he looks up. “How long is this ride again?”

Jean looks up, blinking, lost in his memories. This time, they’re headed up to Marco’s house for a weekend visit with no special occasion other than the fact that Marco had been a bit homesick recently. Thankfully, it’s not a very busy travel day, or so it seems judging from the emptiness of the train car, and Jean has his feet propped up on the empty seat next to Marco, with Marco mirroring his action. 

“Not much longer than the one we usually take,” Jean reassures him, tapping his foot. He’s taken off his shoes, so his feet are warm through the socks. It’s going to be long ride, nonetheless. “It’s just a lot cheaper if we take this route at this time.”

“Cheaper” is something that both of them have gotten used to being as a motivating factor for how they plan their lives.

“Marco, what the hell are these socks?” Jean asks playfully, trying not to laugh as he stares at the socks Marco’s wearing, just noticing the pattern.

“What?” Marco asks, putting his hands up in defense of his sock selection.

“They have reindeer on them.” Jean raises an eyebrow, staring down at the socks. “The holiday socks are bad enough, but they’re also the wrong holiday.” 

“It was my only clean pair!” Marco’s voice doesn’t hold a hint of defensiveness, and he’s trying not to laugh before lightly kicking Jean in the thigh playfully.

Jean snorts, shaking his head; he neglects to comment on his own socks, which, although lack whimsical holiday prints, are mismatched colors and have holes in the toes.

There’s a short lull in conversation, and Jean closes his eyes comfortably, letting his hand rest on Marco’s ankle.

It’s been some time since he’d last seen the Bodts. Time flew by between a new job, a new home, and a new relationship. All if it had left Jean exhausted, albeit happier than before, but he was still adjusting to all the changes. He was just grateful Marco had been there for everything, just as he had since they graduated college six years before.

At first, no one asked why they stuck together. It just seemed natural, and it wasn’t uncommon for recent college grads moving to a new city to get a place together as roommates. At first, it was, and they didn’t think about it. Being together was like breathing, until Jean got a surprise job offer several cities away.

“Hey,” Marco says suddenly, nudging Jean’s hand with his toe, “remember the first time you came home with me for Halloween? And you wouldn’t stop talking about how dorky the hayride was, until Margit told you to shut up? I’ve never seen you look so scared of someone.”

Jean groans—both at the memory of his own juvenile rudeness, and also due to a healthy fear of Marco’s older sister—and he grunts. “Not as bad as the first time you met my mom. God, you even offered to fold the napkins into birds. I think she wanted to ditch me and adopt you instead.”

It’s Marco’s turn to groan, and then they laugh a little together. Their eyes meet after a moment, and Marco’s gaze softens a bit when he looks at Jean.

“Are you nervous?” he guesses.

“No,” Jean immediately retorts, crossing his arms over his chest. Some habits never die.

“We don’t _have_ to say anything.” Marco raises an eyebrow, his face completely serious; of course he’d offer something like that. He’s always been willing to risk his own comfort for Jean’s, if it’s serious enough.

“Bullshit,” Jean retorts curtly. “I’m tired of not saying something.”

Marco gives Jean’s hand a nudge with his foot, before moving to stand up and yawn, arms stretched above his head. Jean just watches appreciatively, no longer feeling bad about ogling his best friend, and Marco gives him a sweet little smile when he realizes he’s being watched.

“It’s up to you,” Marco says simply, before pushing the armrest next to Jean’s seat up so he can sit in the vacant one beside it. 

Jean doesn’t object as Marco sidles up next to him, resting his head against Jean’s shoulder and getting close.

“No,” Jean corrects, trying not to sound irritated at Marco’s infuriatingly altruistic approach to their relationship, “it’s up to both of us.”

That gives Marco pause, and he can practically hear the gears whirling in Marco’s head, before there’s a slight nod against his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“I want to tell them.”

The train distracts both of them momentarily as it jolts slightly on the track, quickly speeding away from the city they both just started to call home under a year ago.

Stohess, a leap that neither Jean’s mother or Marco’s parents really understood.

It had been Jean’s mother who first brought it up with him—what he was going to do without Marco when he moved, since he’d been lucky enough to “room with his best friend for years” and how, in her very practical, well intentioned way, she’d reminded him how expensive Stohess actually was. 

In other words, living by himself wasn’t an option. 

It was in the middle of breakfast at his mother’s house, only a few days after he’d accepted the job offer and decided to go home before everything changed, that he’d told her. “Marco is coming with me.”

She’d raised her eyes, taken by surprise for once, and studied him momentarily. He’d just stone faced her, not ready to talk about what was happening there—he hadn’t even known at the time—but being his mother and blunt, she’d simply asked, “Are you two dating?”

“No.” Jean had scowled.

She’d remained quiet for a moment, turning her attention back to her eggs and toast, as if processing this information. They’d finished their meal in silence, until finally, she’d simply said, “Okay.”

Jean had just stared at her, searching for an ulterior motive. “Okay, what?”

“That’s it,” she’d replied with a shrug, “‘okay—Marco is going with you.’”

“I have no idea what we’re doing,” he’d finally blurted out, getting up from the table quickly, frowning. “But…” A deep breath. “I asked him, because he wouldn’t ask first. It is what it is.”

It was during Thanksgiving a few months later—and after everything had changed—when Marco had gone home with him for the holiday, that Jean had kissed Marco good morning in front of his mother. That had been the end of any ambiguity or questions, save of course the excessive motherly hugs and offer to share “Jeanbo’s favorite recipes” since she knew Marco liked to cook. 

It was mortifying, but Marco had taken the recipes nonetheless. Later, Jean had felt less embarrassed since Marco was a damn fine cook.

“Did you bring the mulled wine you made?” Jean asks absently, draping his arm over Marco’s shoulders as he glances out the window at the intense swash of autumn colors in the mountainous terrain, the familiar indication that they’re the way to Jinae.

“Yeah, I figured we should probably be as gay and coupley as possible,” Marco murmurs wryly against Jean’s shoulder where he sounds sleepy now, and Jean snorts while tapping him lightly on the arm in rebuke. Marco just laughs, and Jean feels warm. “I also brought handmade centerpieces as a gift.”

“It’s really sick that I don’t know whether you’re joking,” Jean quips, ruffling Marco’s hair—an action he knows Marco hates—and he gets a sound of protest in response. “You’re joking, right?”

“Are you really worried?” Marco asks softly after a few moments, turning his head to look out the window, too; he catches Jean’s gaze in the reflection before turning to look up with legitimate concern. “You know they love you.”

“It’s just different,” Jean replies softly, sighing a little. “They think you’re straight.”

“I never really talked about my sexuality with my family,” Marco agrees, but shrugs a little. “There was no reason. I dated the same girl in high school for six years, we broke up because I went to college, end of story.”

“They’re not curious why you haven’t dated anyone since then?” Jean asks curiously. The idea of Marco dating someone else immediately makes his stomach twist; not out of ridiculous jealousy for any past relationship, but because Jean knows just how close he came to losing Marco. It had taken the most courage he’d ever had to muster to ask Marco to move to Stohess with him. They hadn’t even kissed yet at the time, and it seemed bizarre.

Marco’s answer was a simple, though emotional, “Yes.”

“They’re not nosy like _some_ people,” Marco replies, amusement in his voice, and Jean knows it’s a gentle joke about his own mother. Jean takes no offense, because Marco loves his mother. The humor fades, though, as he sighs softly. “I wish they were sometimes. It’d make certain things easier.”

“Do you think they have _any_ idea?” Jean asks hopefully. It’s not that he thinks Marco’s parents would be judgmental, but blindsiding family isn’t always the easiest endeavor.

“Honestly?” Marco answers, sitting up straight to meet Jean’s eyes. “I don’t think so.”

Jean groans, rolling his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look,” Marco says, his voice that brand of soothing Jean’s come to expect when he’s stressed out, “we don’t have to tell them this time. Yes, I want to tell them, but if it’s not the right time, we’ll have other opportunities.” He nods resolutely at Jean. “I mean it when I say it’s up to you, and I don’t care if it’s this time, or next time we see them.”

Jean grinds his teeth, looking over at Marco gratefully, and then leans over to press a kiss to his lips. Marco smiles before settling into the kiss, deepening it, and Jean has to restrain himself before they end up naked then and there in the train car.

“Does this mean no sex when we’re there?” Marco whispers into his ear in that low rumble of a voice he only uses in their bedroom.

Jean snorts derisively at that suggestion, drawing back to look at Marco. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, focused intently on Jean. He grins a little at Jean’s response. 

“We’ll be quiet,” Jean promises. “Is the attic still your room?”

Marco laughs, bright and clear, and he nods. “And the lock is still on the door.”

Jean smiles at him, and suddenly, nothing sounds better than spending the weekend with the Bodts. He’s missed this.

Out the window behind Marco, the sky is a vivid blue above the intense reds, oranges, and yellows of the changing trees that flash by—a perfect fall day.

Jean nuzzles Marco’s hair, and there’s a short quiet until Marco mumbles into his shoulder, “I wasn’t joking about the center pieces.”

“For fuck’s sake. That’s the worst domestic shit I’ve ever heard.”

Marco grins. “I guess I should stop all that other ‘domestic shit’ like cooking, then, right?”

Jean doesn’t answer, willed into submission by the potential absence of Marco’s cooking, and there’s a slight chuckle.

“Jerk.”

“You love me.”

Jean smiles a little despite himself, feeling silly, but replies quietly, “Yeah.”

*

“Jean!” Marco’s mother’s hugs are no joke, and the breath is squeezed out of him as she takes him in her arms as soon as they get off the train. Marco is sleepy since he’d fallen asleep on Jean’s shoulder for most of the ride—all six hours—and he smiles with that sleepy, doofy expression that Jean’s come to know very well, and most commonly seen while in their bed basked in morning light. 

Margit has come along, and she looks back and forth between them, raising an eyebrow when Marco pats Jean on the shoulder in an unconscious gesture of affection; that’s all it takes for Jean to know that she knows what’s going on.

Marco’s sister: still scary. But at least the reaction wasn’t bad, and if anyone might have a negative reaction in their family, it would be Margit. She’s can be extremely judgmental, and didn’t take kindly to Jean’s immature college antics that Marco, on the other hand, had the utmost patience for.

Jean smiles a little when they approach the mud-spattered pick-up truck, though, when he sees a certain painting on the side that reads “Bodt Orchard” with a haphazard apple rendered in spray paint is still there.

It’s Jean handiwork from his senior year of college, a favor that Marco had begged for after he’d found out that—in his words—Jean was “a really talented artist.” Jean had taken a drawing class for non-majors to fulfill a general education credit requirement, and had felt a bit silly about it given how much he had enjoyed what seemed like a fruitless activity, so he’d kept it a secret. However, as usual, Marco had managed to find out somehow.

Nonetheless, the entire Bodt family was thrilled with the painting, and it had unexpectedly given Jean a small sense of pride. They didn’t even make a living completely off their orchards or land, but did sell their apples at local fairs and events, hence the apple.

“A classic piece of fine art,” Jean remarks wryly, and Marco shoves him lightly, grinning. Margit’s eyebrow raises again and he ignores it.

The two of them squish into the back of the truck as Margit—wearing a pair of heavy galoshes and raincoat—slams the door heftily. The truck only has two doors, made for hauling loads rather than groups of people.

Marco’s mother chatters excitedly as they pull out of the muddy parking lot, colorful autumnal trees flying past, though less brilliant than before since the sky is overcast. Jean is suddenly happy that they’ll soon be inside the warmth of Marco’s house—familiar and very comfortable.

“How’s your mother? How’s life? How’s Stohess?” The questions are pelted at him from the front seat where Marco’s mother is driving their pick-up truck, prescription lenses not preventing her from squinting at the unpaved road in front of them. Marco’s driveway to his house isn’t so much a driveway as a rural road straight out of the nineteenth century.

“Um, good,” Jean stammers, suddenly realizing that Marco is dozing off again and that his head is about to fall onto Jean’s shoulder. He doesn’t feel like having an awkward moment that requires explanation he’s not quite ready to get into—they just got here, after all—and he dodges it by pushing Marco in the other direction.

He frowns and Jean immediately doesn’t like this feeling—the urge to fight his natural instinct to be affectionate with Marco. He’s never been a very openly affectionate person, but Marco’s touches have always been easy, whether as friends or lovers.

Margit looks at him over her shoulder slightly, obviously noticing the action, but keeps her silence. Marco’s sister may be judgmental and scary, but she loves him dearly, and Jean knows very well she wouldn’t put his comfort in jeopardy.

They make the rest of the drive in comfortable silence, but when Marco ends up on Jean’s shoulder anyway, no one seems to even take notice.

Jean has to wonder suddenly if they’ve always been like this without even realizing; maybe the only new thing, really, is the kissing.

“C’mon, sleepy head!” Marco’s mother calls cheerfully as they finally pull up to the large farmhouse. It’s painted a fresh white, the wraparound porch redone at some point by Marco’s father with the help of a few sisters (Jean still gets them mixed up), and he feels a sense of peace settle into his bones. Going to the Bodts’ house is always like a mini-vacation, and the truth is that Jean could use one of those right about now.

“Good to be home,” Marco says through a yawn, blinking sleepily at Jean and smiling a little. Traveling always makes him tired, and Jean smiles a little in return, snorting.

“You gonna sleep the entire trip?”

Marco’s mother hops out of the truck, pulling her seat forward at the same time as Margit so they can get out.

With a sudden renewed burst of energy, Marco clambers out the door, long limbs almost getting caught on the front seat. “Not if my mom made pie!” he chirps cheerfully. “Where do you think I get my cooking skills from?”

Margit glances back and forth between them, her gaze curious as she hauls their bags out of the back; Marco grabs his own, making his way up to the house, talking to his mother a mile a minute about how life has been now that he’s awake.

Jean laughs a little, letting them go ahead. Marco’s close to his parents in a different way than Jean is close to his mother; it’s so wholesome, like a commercial.

Margit’s stare is burning into Jean’s back, though, and he turns his head to meet her eyes that are disconcertingly similar to Marco’s. It’s the doe eyes—all of Marco’s siblings have them, courtesy of one, Mrs. Bodt—although on Margit, they look more sharp and calculating, rather than soft and intelligent.

“Don’t worry,” she says, hauling both of their bags over her shoulders despite Jean’s wordless offer to help, “I’m not going to say anything. It’s up to you two.”

Jean trips over his words, resenting the blush that he can feel start to flush his cheeks; he snaps his mouth shut and just kicks at the ground.

“Thanks,” he finally settles on. “It’s not that… I just…”

“I’m sure that Marco is more than capable of handling it,” Margit retorts curtly. “He’s an adult, and so are you, and it’s your business.” She gives Jean a once over, ignoring his stony expression, and she nods in some strange version of approval. “He seems happy.”

It’s as simple as that, and Jean feels a weight in his chest seem to lift. “He does?” he asks, his voice more expectant and young sounding than he wanted. He clears his throat awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets as they start the walk up toward the house.

“Yeah,” Margit replies evenly. “He’s my little brother—I used to change his shitty diapers. I know his moods.”

Jean makes a disgusted sound and rolls his eyes. “Thanks for that visual. That’s exactly how I want to think of my fiancé.”

That earns a pause in Margit’s step, and she actually appears taken off guard for once, turning to look at Jean sharply. “Did he say yes?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies softly, not daring to look Marco’s sister in the eye. “If we don’t say something now, we will by the end of the year.” He heaves a sigh and shrugs.

He’s expecting a barrage of critical denials, but Margit just nods. “Like I said, Marco’s an adult, and he can make his own decisions.” She gives Jean a side eye, and although he thinks he’s imagining it, Margit actually looks concerned. “They’re going to be surprised.”

“I thought they were okay with gay stuff?” Jean asks, panic rising in him. The possibility that Marco’s parents would be legitimately homophobic had never occurred to him. “I mean, they had the Facebook rainbow icons.”

Margit snorts. “Who the hell didn’t?” She grins a little, toothy in that way she only ever does at Marco, and for some reason, it makes Jean feel included—like part of the family. “No, they’re not homophobic. It’s not about that.” She hangs back just as they’re about to reach the door. “They’re just not expecting it—I can tell you that for a fact. They have absolutely no idea, because it’s _Marco_. And you’re _you_.”

Jean sputters at the insult, and she holds up her hand to halt his offense. “Jean, all you’ve ever done is talk about how you want a good job and a cushy life. You’re cynical, and Marco’s a sap.” 

“He’s not a sap,” Jean grumbles, rolling his eyes. “He’s the practical one.”

“I didn’t say he’s not that, too,” she retorts, hauling Jean’s bag off her shoulder and tossing it to him. “But he’s _also_ a sap about certain things, even if he doesn’t show it. He’s never been a big fan of self-indulgence.” 

Jean sets his jaw, staring at Marco’s sister with what he hopes is a hard look. “So, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that if Marco was going to marry someone, our parents are most likely expecting it to be a girl who wants to settle down in the country, have a family, and live the simple life.”

“Why the fuck would anyone want that?” Jean spits, frowning.

“I don’t know. Ask Marco—that’s the last thing he said he wanted before he left home to go be your roommate.”

Speaking of unexpected things, that leaves Jean at a loss for words.

Margit actually looks a little apologetic when she sees the look on Jean’s face, though, and she attempts a save. “I’m not saying that he didn’t want to—it’s just that he told our parents something totally different right after college, so they’re going to be surprised.” She shrugs, but waits for Jean’s response. “I know how important you are to him.”

That makes Jean feel a little better, and he bites his lip. “Well,” he finally says, “you said he looked happy, right?”

That earns a small smile, and she nods. “Yeah.”

“Can we just eat some fucking pie and talk about this later?”

The smile grows into a laugh—warm, when she feels like it, more similar to how Marco is most of the time—and she pats him on the shoulder. “Sure.”

Nonetheless, Jean has much more on his mind now than he first bargained for.

*

Dinner is pleasant, and Jean almost forgets about his troubling conversation with Margit. Everything is delicious—Marco was right about where he got his cooking skills—and dessert is even better.

Marco has five sisters in addition Margit, and they’re all in the living room, watching TV and eating apple pie ala mode happily. Margit has disappeared into the guest room (the one Jean stayed in when they were still in college) which has since become her office, hunched over her laptop with a giant pair of glasses on her nose. Jean knows she’s working on her thesis; he only knows this because Marco worries about her constantly.

And then there are just the two of them, sitting at the kitchen table with Marco’s parents, eating pie. The kitchen is warm and smells sweet, and Jean is still amazed that homemade desserts this good exist in real life.

“Are you boys ready to pick some apples tomorrow?” Mrs. Bodt asks, smiling at both of them as she takes a bite of pie. “It’s supposed to be a clear day, perfect for your visit.”

“That sounds great,” Jean replies, smiling genuinely. Although he teased Marco for being painfully polite at the Kirschstein household, Jean knows very well he’s just as bad. 

“I got so sick of apple pie when I was a kid,” Marco says suddenly, laughing as he takes another bite of his pie, topped with an extra dollop of whipped cream. “Now, I’m pretty sure I could live off this stuff.”

Marco’s father grunts and then smiles a little, unspeaking. Mr. Bodt isn’t a man of many words, but Jean knows that Marco admires him deeply. It’s a different way than his mother, but equal. 

“Jean,” he says suddenly, “how’s the new job going?”

Jean almost chokes on his pie and swallows quickly, grabbing his napkin. Marco’s father has never been stern or mean-spirited, so much as serious and direct; it’s a quality that demands respect. Jean admired him immediately upon first meeting, and has since reveled in every opportunity to impress.

“It’s great,” he replies, his voice even and strong. “I took a pay cut, but it’s what I wanted.”

Marco’s father immediately shifts his gaze to Marco, taking a neat mouthful of pie, swallowing before saying, “And how do you like Stohess, Marco?”

Jean swallows hard, and Marco just shrugs a little; he gets shy when his father is so direct, even though it’s obvious discomfort isn’t intended. Marco is much less blunt than his father. It’s not that he’s passive aggressive, but Marco’s more subtle, gentler in his questions and reprimands; more willing to be the guy who keeps the peace than the one to be uncomfortably direct.

Jean feels his heart swell, though, when Marco answers. “I like it a lot.” There’s a slight nudge against Jean’s foot under the table, affectionate. “I actually never knew how much I’d like it.”

“The big city!” Marco’s mother enthuses, but she sounds a little mystified. “I never pictured you there, Marco.”

“Neither did I,” Marco laughs a little, setting his fork down on his empty plate. “But it’s really nice! You should come visit sometime.”

That earns a genuine smile out of Mrs. Bodt, and she nods. “That sounds wonderful. Will you have enough room?” She worries her lip, tilting her head to the side. “Do you have one of those ‘two bedrooms’ that actually consist of two bedrooms?”

Jean clears his throat noisily, shoveling pie into his mouth.

The fact is that, yes, their two bedroom apartment is very much a two bedroom; but the second bedroom is the guestroom, since they’ve been sharing a bed for quite some time now. 

“No problem,” Marco says with a cheerful smile. “Don’t waste money on a hotel. There’s plenty of room—we’ll figure it out.”

“I haven’t been to Stohess in…” Mrs. Bodt raises her eyebrows, looking over at her husband. “I guess since we started out our honeymoon there. It’s a beautiful place.”

Jean has to internally agree, but not so much because of its architecture or cleanliness, but because it’s a city he and Marco moved to together. It’s their city.

“Still got all those bridges?” Mr. Bodt asks, neatly wiping his mouth with his napkin and pushing his plate away.

“Yup,” Jean answers, nodding and jumping at the excuse to escape.

“It’s so romantic there!” Marco’s mother enthuses. She smiles, though, looking around the kitchen. “But I wouldn’t trade anything for this.”

To Jean’s horror, Marco actually looks a little wistful at that, and follows his mother’s gaze around the kitchen.

“That’s just me, though,” she continues cheerfully, turning to smile at Jean now. “Some of us are city folk, and some of us are happy spending time with the crickets and trees.” She laughs a little, accepting Jean’s offer to take her empty plate. “I think from the moment we met you, Jean, though, we knew you were definitely not a full-time apple picker.”

“I like apple picking!” Jean defends, eyebrows shooting up, but he laughs at Marco’s mother’s gentle teasing. It makes him feel at home again. “It’s nice up here. I just…” He clears his throat awkwardly, looking around the kitchen. It’s a beautiful space, with big old beams of wood that run through the ceiling, an island in the center, and a long, wooden counter that’s seen decades of chopping, simmering, and slicing. It smells like cinnamon and tea, or that kind of homemade food that Jean had only first tasted after befriending Marco. (Jean’s mother is more about the microwave than the oven.)

“Stop torturing Jean,” comes a familiar voice from the doorway, and he looks over in surprise to see Margit standing there. “It’s not his fault he’s not a bumpkin.” She slips her glasses off and raises an eyebrow at her parents, before swooping in to steal a bite of Marco’s pie.

“Hey!” he cries. “Get your own!”

She munches and grins at him; Marco sticks out his tongue.

“I wasn’t aware that our children were still ten years old,” Mr. Bodt deadpans.

Jean snorts in amusement from where he’s busy rinsing off the plates before loading them into the dishwasher, and Marco responds with a hand over his chest as if he’s just been shot through the heart. “Et tu, Jean?” he says dramatically, pretending to swoon over Jean’s laughter. “Et tu?”

That earns a huge yawn in the place of a comeback, and Marco laughs. “Its only eight.”

“Says the kid who slept for literally half the day,” Jean retorts, making his way back over to collect Marco’s now empty plate.

He doesn’t even think about it as he bends over, intent on kissing Marco wherever his lips ends up—a habit that he’d first felt silly about, but now enjoys very much—when Margit starts choking.

“Margit, honey, are you okay?” Mrs. Bodt sounds legitimately panicked, and Jean looks over in surprise, hoping he doesn’t have to do a Heimlich maneuver on Marco’s sister. She might actually kill him.

She chokes again, and Mr. Bodt hops up to grab a glass, followed by his wife who goes over to the faucet quickly to run the water.

And then, just as Jean’s starting to think she’s actually in trouble, she looks directly at both of them and raises her eyebrow.

“Ow!” Marco starts, and Jean knows he just got kicked under the table. Then, he looks from Margit, to Jean, and back again. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” Jean mutters, drawing away quickly and taking Marco’s plate with him.

“I’m fine,” Margit reassures her parents as a glass of water is proffered at her. It all happened in a matter of seconds, but she basically just saved their asses from what, at best, would be a very awkward moment. “Thanks. Too much spice.”

“I barely put any cinnamon in this pie,” Mrs. Bodt says, looking genuinely remorseful.

“No, mom,” Margit says, taking a huge bite. “It’s really good. I guess I just swallowed wrong or something.”

Everyone settles back down after that, quieter now, sleepier. Jean finishes loading the dishwasher, and tells Marco off when he gets laughed at again for yawning so much.

“Let Jean go to bed,” Mrs. Bodt says to Marco, shaking her head in disapproval.

Marco puts his hands up in defeat, grinning in that boyish way that always makes Jean’s heart beat a little bit faster, silly and warm, and he nods. “Okay, okay. But I guess I might as well go, too. It was a long trip today, and I want to get up early tomorrow for apple picking!” He looks so enthusiastic at this prospect, that Jean is already internally groaning since he knows Marco’s going to be up at the ass crack of dawn, fully clothed and armed with a ladder. Maybe even a horse.

“Okay, boys,” Mrs. Bodt says, nodding. “The air mattress is upstairs in Marco’s bedroom, and there are some sheets and a towel for Jean. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Now, Marco yawns, and Jean laughs at him in return. Mr. Bodt nods good night, and a few sisters chorus the same from the living room, immersed in some TV show they’re all watching together.

Jean considers this for a moment, and yet again, is struck at how different his upbringing was from Marco’s, his family being comprised solely of himself and his mother. However, it’s not so much that he suffered deprivation or a bad childhood—he knows his mother would do anything for him—but he’s simply reminded, once again, of how different Marco and he really are.

Suddenly, there’s a voice from the entrance of the living room. “Hi, Jean.” It’s Matilda, Marco’s younger sister who’s had a crush on jean since the day she hit puberty. She blushes a little, smiling from under her bangs. 

“Hi, Matilda,” Jean replies awkwardly.

“Do you know how old I am now?” she asks, her voice strangely sly.

Oh god.

Jean pretends to be completely confused, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got to be in at least the seventh grade, right?”

He knows very well that she’s at least a high school junior, but he’s not going to tell _her_ that.

As planned, she immediately turns red and looks mortified. “No!” she says defensively. “I’m already—”

“Mattie,” comes Marco’s stern voice, “Jean is dating someone, and he’s ten years older than you.”

Jean’s head whips around to stare at Marco, and there’s a smile he’s visibly struggling to fight off.

“Jean has a girlfriend?” she squeaks, looking horrified. She turns to Jean, staring as if she’s been betrayed. “You have a girlfriend?” she repeats.

“Uh…” Jean stammers, “yeah, I’m dating someone. It’s pretty serious.”

She looks back and forth between them, and then immediately progresses from mortified to huffy, retreating back into the living room as if she’s been spurned.

Marco groans, rolling his eyes. “She’s at that age,” he says, shaking his head as if that explains everything. Jean knows Marco’s been through this routine with his sisters multiple times, but Jean’s clueless.

Marco looks at Jean, and a mischievous look passes over his face, lips quirking as his freckles bunch up.

Fuck, he’s hot—Jean can’t believe it took him so many years for this fact to finally sink in—and he suddenly is starving for Marco’s touch. Just a day of holding back has left him feeling bereft of the affectionate he’s gotten so used to sharing.

“It’s serious, huh?” Marco deadpans, and Jean smacks him lightly in the upper arm.

They bound up the stairs to Marco’s attic bedroom together, and as soon as Marco shuts the door, Jean immediately strips off his shirt. He collapses onto the bed with both arms outstretched, waiting, and Marco falls happily into them. Marco rolls Jean onto his back and nuzzles his face against Jean’s neck, kissing him there.

When their lips meet finally, the world seems to make sense again.

“You taste like pie,” Jean murmurs, smiling against Marco’s mouth and reaching up to run his fingers through dark hair. 

There’s a short silence, and Marco gives a contented sigh, settling against Jean and pillowing his head against his chest.

Jean knows there’s something on Marco’s mind, though, so he taps a shoulder. “What?”

“You told Margit?” Marco asks. He doesn’t sound angry, so much as mystified; Jean can’t blame him, considering how he and Margit have tended to verbally spar like angry cats over the years.

“She guessed,” Jean corrects, letting his fingertips graze lazily over Marco’s shoulder blades. “She knew from the moment we got in the truck. She _looked_ at me weird.”

Marco laughs softly, his voice tired, as Jean idly traces his spine through the soft t-shirt.

“I guess I should’ve expected that,” he admits, arching into Jean’s touch. “Mm, but can we talk about this later?”

Jean’s more than a little relieved that he doesn’t need to explain anything further about his interaction with Margit right now, and he takes the opportunity to pull Marco down for another kiss. This time, it’s more demanding, more insistent, and Marco gasps.

“Jean,” he hums when he break apart, his voice almost slurred, “wanted you all day.” He pulls away for a moment to pull off his shirt and throw it on the floor before bending down to kiss Jean properly, pulling Jean’s thighs around his hips; Jean just throws his head back and whimpers as they press against each other.

“Feels good like this,” Jean murmurs, not thinking about what he’s saying, “you against me, don’t ever want to change anything.”

Marco pauses, pulling back a little to meet Jean’s eyes, a question there; but when Jean raises his eyebrows in a silent plea not to talk about it further tonight, there are no more questions.

“Neither do I,” comes Marco quiet voice, kissing at Jean’s ear on the lobe where he’s most sensitive. “Sorry, you’re stuck with me, so get used to it.”

Jean laughs, his voice gravelly since his cock is aching now; it’s only spurred on by the fact that he can feel Marco’s own hardness through his jeans. 

Suddenly, they both stiffen when there’s a rap on the door, and Marco’s mother’s voice carries through, “Boys! I brought Jean an extra comforter in case he needs it. It’s cold tonight!”

Jean muffles his laughter in Marco’s shoulder, silly giggles that are ridiculously immature, and then he realizes that Marco is blushing, but also stifling his own laughter in Jean’s neck.

“Um,” he shouts back, “hold on! I’m just…” he pulls back to meet Jean’s eyes, shaking his head as if trying to come up with an excuse.

“Getting dressed,” Jean mouths.

“I’m just getting my pajamas on! I’ll be out in a second.”

“Okay!” comes Mrs. Bodt’s cheerful voice. “I’ll leave them outside the door here. Good night, boys.”

“Night!” Marco calls out in a strangled voice, shifting uncomfortably where his dick is still very obviously hard. “Sleep tight!”

They both stay absolutely dead silent for a moment, listening to Marco’s mother’s footsteps as she retreats down the hallway, wood floor creaking.

“Oh my god,” Jean whispers, laughing hysterically and trying to silence it, “did you seriously just say that?”

“What?!” Marco squeaks indignantly. “It’s a nice saying!” 

“My mom used to say that to me,” Jean deadpans, pulling Marco close again. “That’s totally unsexy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Marco forcefully pulls Jean’s leg up around his hip, knowing how crazy it makes Jean when he acts dominant. “Is it?”

Jean arches his back and pulls Marco down for a kiss. “No,” he murmurs as they part again.

There’s sudden giggling outside the door, several pairs of feet in the hallway down the stairs to the attic, and they both stiffen against each other; then, there are a few thumps of footsteps as Marco’s sisters obviously go down the hallway.

“Sorry about my sisters,” he murmurs, chuckling softly as he leans forward to bite at Jean’s earlobe lazily. “I’ll try not to be unsexy.”

Jean smiles a little as he wraps his arms around Marco possessively, groaning quietly as he feels Marco suck at his earlobe, then bite gently. “Feels good,” he murmurs. “Keep doing that?”

There’s the creak of a door down below, some muffled voice, and they both laugh quietly, but are soon too lost in each other now to really be worried.

As Marco takes his time, kissing and biting, a confident hand sliding up into Jean’s hair, Jean marvels at how easy it is; and suddenly, he remembers the first time something changed between them, how hard it was, how shockingly different things are now. 

_It’s late, and Jean has been watching the clock since six, the time that Marco was supposed to meet his blind date._

_They’ve been living together for more than a few years now, and Jean had never been good with jealousy._

_But he swears to himself he’s not jealous; he’s just worried about his friend who hasn’t dated in awhile. Marco is way too easy to take advantage of—too good-natured, too much of a homebody, too well-intentioned—not in the naïve sense, but in the way that he’s a good person._

_Jean grinds his teeth, making coffee way too late at night, frowning out the window at the darkening sky. It’s purple now, slowly fading into black due to the autumnal season, and he resists texting Marco._

_That’d be weird, and he’s not a weird guy._

_Instead, he decides to send an email to his mother about the upcoming holidays and how he’s definitely bringing Marco; then ponders the job offer he just got unexpectedly. It’s in Stohess, which is a long way from Trost._

_He wants to take it, though. It’s everything he’s really ever wanted without admitting it, since he’s really grown up._

_The email is casual, an old friend from college named Armin, who tells him that they need a good artist to freelance on an archeology project. He doesn’t ask about Jean’s qualifications or his resume—just says, ‘I remember how good you were with details. Don’t trust anyone else to really capture this—I’ll pay you double to take the job.’_

_Armin doesn’t need to pay him double; he desperately wants to take it anyway._

_Halfway through his email, though, his phone chimes. It’s Marco, saying that his date doesn’t like pizza, and asking whether that’s a deal breaker._

_Jean wants to reply with an inquiry about whether Marco is trying to write a goddamn rom-com script via text message._

_But his answer is: yes, unless she has a legitimate excuse._

_Jean doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t like pizza. Then again, his longtime college study buddy, Mikasa, doesn’t like pizza._

_He texts Marco again, and adds that if she’s really special, then disliking pizza is acceptable._

_He doesn’t hear from Marco again over the course of the evening, but by the time the lock in the door turns and startles him, he still hasn’t finished his email to Armin._

_He still hasn’t said yes or no._

_“Hey,” comes Marco’s soft voice when he sees the light on Jean’s desk still on. It’s situated in the living room, and there’s a slight awkward shuffling of shoes; for one terrible moment, Jean thinks Marco has brought his date home. “Sorry,” he’s giggling a little, silly, “I’m late. Do you want to go to bed?”_

_Jean panics, slapping his computer shut and standing awkwardly, desperate to escape._

_“Jean?” Marco’s voice startles him, and Jean turns sharply on his heel to stare. He’s ready to ream Marco out—mostly fight or flight reaction, but it hurts—until he sees Marco kick off his shoes, and the obvious fact that his roommate is alone. “Um, I’m sorry… that was a weird thing to say.”_

_He clears his throat awkwardly, shrugging off his jacket quickly and using it as an excuse to turn away. It gets hung up on the hooks next to the door that Jean installed they day they moved in._

_“What?” Jean asks, trying to play it cool even though he’s already made it obvious he’s uncomfortable. “What was weird? Everything’s cool here.” He chuckles awkwardly, moving toward his bedroom door. He’s old enough to know to follow his own instincts now: escape, remove himself from the situation, not act on impulse._

_“Jean,” Marco says, eyes unfocused, “I’m really drunk.”_

_He looks almost remorseful as he says it, and Jean blinks in surprise. Marco never gets drunk._

_“Are you okay?” he asks, concern found anew as he forgets his own insecurities. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Date went really bad,” Marco says, and as he steps further into the room, he stumbles a little. “Sorry, I’m kind of a mess.”_

_“That’s okay,” Jean replies quietly, going to Marco without thought and putting an arm around his shoulders to steady him. “You want to watch something stupid on TV?”_

_“Yeah,” Marco replies softly, pushing his face against Jean’s shoulder. “That’d be nice.”_

_Jean doesn’t ask what went wrong, just lets Marco stumble into his own room and pull on some semblance of pajamas, and then immediately fall asleep on Jean’s shoulder when they start watching a shitty movie in the living room._

_“You okay?” Jean asks softly._

_“Yeah,” Marco murmurs, nuzzling into Jean’s shoulder. “Thanks, Jean.”_

_Jean never finds out what went wrong that night, but a few days later, he tells Marco that he’s decided to take a job in Stohess, and he needs to move out._

_He apologizes, because he doesn’t know what else to do when Marco looks like he wants to cry, but there’s no further commentary._

_That is, until later that night, when Marco wanders into the living room and sits down next to Jean on the ratty sofa that belonged to Jean’s mother. Definitely leaving that behind, because totally unsexy._

_“You got a good job offer?” he asks conversationally as Jean taps on his computer settled on his lap._

_“Yeah, randomly,” Jean replies, hazarding a glance at Marco, unsure of what to expect. “I want to go.”_

_“Uh huh,” Marco replies, smiling tightly. “I understand. This place is pretty shitty, huh?” He stands up quickly, looking out the window awkwardly. “There are way better places to settle.”_

_As he walks away, Jean is suddenly offended, his hackles raised as he shuts his laptop. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands, ire suddenly piqued. “You hate it here?”_

_He doesn’t know why he’s angry, but he is suddenly is; it’s a relief to direct his emotions somewhere that makes sense._

_“Yeah,” Marco answers, his voice full of uncharacteristic vitriol, “I’m moving out, too. I’m not happy here, so you’ve got the right idea.”_

_That leaves Jean a little speechless, and he just stares at Marco’s retreating back until a door closes firmly._

_The door stays closed all day, until Jean orders takeout, and makes sure to order pizza with Marco’s favorite—way too many vegetables, extra cheese, and garlic butter on the side—and then lures him out with the temptation._

_He does come out, and Jean is surprised to see his eyes are swollen, as if he’s been crying, but ignores it. He’s not good at this._

_“I got you some pizza,” he says awkwardly. “With extra veggies and everything.”_

_Marco just smiles wanly, picking up a piece of pizza and biting into it almost mindlessly. He’s wearing ridiculous pair of boxers patterned with Santa Claus on them, white tube socks, and a t-shirt that belongs to Jean._

_“That’s my shirt, you know,” Jean remarks, intending for it to break the tension. Instead, it makes Marco turn sharply away, cradling his pizza close to his chest and retreating toward his bedroom._

_“Sorry,” he replies, his voice sounding suspiciously choked. “I’ll wash it and give it to you before you leave. No problem.”_

_But before he can close the door again, Jean is at his back. “Wait,” he says, “come here.”_

_Marco just grunts, but allows himself to be directed to the table where the rest of the pizza is. He sits down and eats in sullen silence, but doesn’t try to leave again._

_Jean stands behind him, resting gentle hands on his shoulders which are tense. “Are you really unhappy here?”_

_Marco doesn’t answer right away, seizing a second slice of pizza and biting into it aggressively. For a moment he hesitates, but then shakes his head no in answer to the question._

_Jean’s patience has run out, and he drops his hands, feeling emotional himself now. “What the fuck?” He knows his voice is overly harsh and confrontational, but he can’t hold it in. “If you’re not unhappy, then why are you saying that shit?”_

_Expectedly, Marco jumps to his feet, pizza slice still in his hand. “You’re leaving,” he says, his voice level even though he’s obviously upset. “So, goodbye.”_

_“So what?” Jean retorts, hurt beyond description. “Just because I’m moving doesn’t mean we won’t still be friends. Why are you acting like I’m going to die?”_

_Marco looks over and they just stare at each other for a moment, and Jean feels his throat tighten. It occurs to him suddenly, right then, that this won’t be their kitchen anymore, nor will he be able to come home to Marco and order pizza the way he likes it._

_And it occurs to him, stupidly simple, that Marco is upset for the same reason._

_“So, you’re saying you don’t want me to leave?” he asks, deciding to be direct. No use in trying to be subtle._

_“Of course I don’t want you to leave,” Marco retorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you want to leave me?”_

_Jean frowns at him. “Of course not, but I…” He looks around their apartment, considering his next words. It’s nothing great, and he doesn’t even like Trost that much. It’s where he grew up, and although it beats a college apartment or living in bumble fuck outside the city limits, he’s eager to get out. “I don’t want to stay here.” He finally settles on, sighing deeply._

_Marco studies his face for a moment, pondering this answer, but finally shrugs in resignation, simply looking defeated now, all fight gone from him. “I understand,” he says simply, before turning away slowly. “I’m not really unhappy here,” he adds quietly. “But I’ll probably move, too, maybe back home. I’ll figure it out.”_

_Jean just watches as Marco slowly retreats to his bedroom, and suddenly, panic starts to rise in him._

_It hits him right then that he’s going to lose Marco—lose this routine they have together, that they’ll be far apart, that they won’t see each other everyday—and the magnitude of the change is overwhelming._

_The fact is, he doesn’t want it that way._

_“I guess we’d better let the landlord know. Do you know exactly what date you need to be in Stohess to start the new job?”_

_“Come with me,” Jean blurts out, forcing himself not to think._

_Marco turns on his heel sharply, staring at Jean with wide, dark eyes; he looks totally incredulous, as if not quite believing the words._

_“Come with you?” he asks, his voice slightly hoarse, as if his throat is dry, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. But it seems like he can’t come up with any other response except the question parroted back at Jean. There’s an edge to it that could be rhetorical or sarcastic, but he sounds so floored, it’s clearly not._

_Jean just stares at him, holding his gaze intently, waiting. He refuses to speak again, and the tension mounts; he wants to look away so badly. The stare is so uncomfortable, since with each second that passes, he knows he’s giving himself away more and more through his eyes—the desperation for Marco to stay with him, his need to be close, the inexplicable draw they have toward each other. It’d seem more expected if they were dating, since that’s what couples do; but they’re not. Nonetheless, Jean considers what they have no less profound or important._

_It’s just hard to explain to your best friend why you just asked him to move to a city with you for no other reason than to stay together._

_“Yes.” Marco’s voice is emotional, and he finally breaks eye contact to stare at the floor._

_Jean prepares a hasty, haphazard explanation of why this is logical, but Marco doesn’t ask for one. He just stands there, arms crossed, and shifts his weight from one side of his body to the other, quiet._

_“Cool,” Jean finally says awkwardly, clearing his throat._

_That earns a surprised glance up from Marco, and to Jean’s amazement, he laughs. It’s a warm sound, and Jean understands it’s at the sheer ridiculousness of this situation, how it doesn’t necessarily need to be awkward, especially now that they’ve established they want the same thing._

_“Cool,” Marco echoes, laughing out loud now. “You’re a dork.”_

_Jean feels all the tension drain out of him immediately as he goes over to smack Marco in the arm playfully and grab a piece of pizza._

_“You really don’t mind moving?” he asks after a few moments of more comfortable silence._

_Marco idly plays with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt before answering, and he’s cautious again. “I just want to go with you,” he says, his voice very soft, and Jean’s heart speeds up._

_Marco starts and Jean pulls him into a hug, and then relaxes almost as quickly. Jean’s not a big hugger, but it seems appropriate right now._

_“Can we leave the ugly couch here, though?” Marco asks into his neck when Jean doesn’t let go, and now its Jean’s turn to laugh._

It seems like a lifetime ago, even though it’s really only about a year and a half, but Marco brings him back to the present with an impatient jerk of his shirt over his head so that they’re chest to chest.

Jean’s back arches, thoughts abandoned as Marco kisses down his chest, smiling as he goes. When Jean’s hips buck, though, he holds them in place firmly, kissing each of them agonizingly slow.

“Fuck,” Jean groans in frustration, fidgeting and reaching up to grab whatever his hand lands on first, which happens to be the old-fashioned metal headboard.

“Ssh,” Marco shushes him through a grin, before then putting on a devious expression as he stares at Jean. “Or maybe I should see how quiet you can actually stay.”

Jean just stares up at him, unable to breathe. It wasn’t until they first fell into bed together that he even realized Marco had this side to him—a dominant streak he obviously enjoys enacting on Jean—and Jean accepts the challenge with no actual intention of winning.

By the time they’re both naked and Marco’s single bed is squeaking, Jean has all but lost the battle to be quiet; instead, he’s moaning into Marco’s mouth as Marco pumps his hips, cock fat and sliding easily in and out of Jean.

“You’re very bad at being quiet,” Marco whispers when he pulls away and slows the motions of his hips where he’s on top, one strong hand gripping Jean’s thigh to hold him in place. He smiles as he bends forward to kiss Jean’s swollen lips, and Jean groans out a stupid half-laugh, half-moan as Marco teases him.

“You are such an asshole,” Jean slurs, reaching forward to pull Marco close again and wrapping his legs more firmly around Marco’s body. “Are you gonna fuck me or not, smart ass?”

Marco giggles like an idiot, more jovial than usual, but then the grin fades as he starts to fuck Jean in earnest, hips pumping hard and without reservation.

Jean comes first after only a few strokes of his own cock, spraying explosively over his stomach as he starts to scream. Marco’s expecting it and has his mouth over Jean’s, the sound choked out so he doesn’t wake up the entire house with his orgasm and defeat the purpose of telling Marco’s family what’s happening at their own pace.

Marco shudders as he comes directly after, emptying himself into Jean with a few jerks of his hips and a stiffening of his body; then, he melts bonelessly against Jean, trying to catch his breath.

“I guess showering together is out of the question,” Jean asks lazily after a few blissful moments of recovery, fingers coming up to tangle in Marco’s sweat-damp hair.

Marco gives a wistful little laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, pretty much, but you can go first if you want.”

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and they both stiffen; Marco scrambles to pull the covers up over both of them, even though the door’s locked.

“Will you guys keep it down?” comes a familiar voice.

“What?” Marco calls out in a strangled voice, making Jean start laughing all over again. “What do you mean?” He waits a beat, his brow furrowing thoughtfully, before he climbs out of bed butt naked to go over and open the door a crack, just wide enough so he can peer out. “Margit?”

“I said,” she repeats, and Jean shies back in uncharacteristic embarrassment as he hears her voice more clearly, hiding under the sheets, “I can hear that damn bed squeaking because my bedroom is right underneath. You’re just lucky mom and dad sleep at the _other_ end of the house.”

Marco snorts and glances back at Jean, but there’s a blush in his face that wasn’t there before. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Um… I’ll talk to you about this entire thing later.”

“Oh, I know,” Margit replies severely, “you better. Go to sleep before someone wakes up and asks if there’s a damn earthquake.”

“Night, Margit,” Marco replies sheepishly, before shutting the door again and firmly clicking the lock into place.

When he turns back around, the blush high in his cheeks, Jean can’t help but grin sheepishly at him. “I guess I failed your challenge,” he snarks.

“Jerk,” Marco retorts, launching himself forward and falling into Jean’s arms much in the same way he had before, minus the sticky body fluids. The bed squeaks loudly, and they both still abruptly, staring at each other in horror before dissolving back into giggles.

Marco laughs so hard he has to press his face into a pillow, trying to stop and failing; it’s probably partially nerves, since he just had the first confrontation with his sister about a major life decision, but Jean can’t stop laughing either. The entire ridiculousness of the situation is too much to swallow, but it also makes Jean feel young and lighthearted—laughing over secret sex with your boyfriend (fiancé, to be precise) during a sleepover at his parents’ house, trying to be subtle.

After they take turns in the shower, change into clean pajamas, and settle next to each other in the narrow bed, Marco’s head under Jean’s chin, Jean feels much more at peace than he did only a few hours ago as they turn out the lights.

“We’re getting up at five for apples, right?” Marco’s voice is hushed and hopeful.

Jean groans quietly, shaking his head. “Why are you like this?”

Jean falls asleep to Marco’s quiet laughter; he knows damn well he’ll still get up at five, no matter how much it makes him want to die.

* 

“Only true friends get up at five in the morning to go apple picking, and then don’t actually pick apples.” Marco’s mother’s voice is fond as she stands next to Jean suddenly, offering him a cup of coffee, which he accepts gratefully.

“I’m still getting used to being awake,” he grunts through his scarf and jacket, staring at Marco in disbelief as he balances on the ladder in the orchard, plucking ripe apples off the trees. There’s still frost on the grass, and Jean spots a deer at the far edge of the orchard, walking by leisurely in the fog. Once the sun is completely out, it’ll burn off the fog and dew off, but for now, it’s a sleepy, dim world.

A few of Marco’s sisters run through giggling, playing tag, also suited up in extra layers and heavy jackets. It’s extremely cold for early November, and Jean shivers a bit, until he’s wordlessly handed a hat along with the coffee.

Marco’s mother is a hearty woman. She’s been overseeing the property for decades while working as a secretary part-time at a local law office, but her first love is obviously the great outdoors.

She’s also very… motherly, and she knows Jean very well, much like Marco.

They both watch Marco in the tree for a few minutes—Mrs. Bodt also requires a strong cup of coffee this early in the morning—and she finally looks over at Jean. They’re out of earshot, and the sounds of screaming as someone gets tagged distracts Marco enough that he climbs down the ladder to deposit his apple haul into the basket, and then go find his siblings.

“I need help, you guys!” he shouts. “Where’d you go?” He smiles delightedly, obviously reveling in spending time with his family. It’s been awhile since they left Stohess to actually go somewhere.

“Jean,” Mrs. Bodt says unexpectedly, “I have something I’d like to ask you in confidence.”

Jean looks over in surprise, panic rising immediately, assuming she heard the sex earthquake in Marco’s bedroom the night before. He prepares himself for the most awkward conversation of his life, but then is blindsided by something totally different.

“Has Marco been happy?” she asks, her brow furrowed as she takes a long sip of her coffee. “He calls me often and talks to me, and everything seems to be fine. But…” She glances over in the direction of her children worriedly where Marco has picked up his youngest sister and hoisted her onto his shoulders to squeals of delight. She can reach apples on low hanging braches riding on Marco’s shoulders, and she goes about plucking the ripe ones and handing them carefully down to Marco who praises her keen eye.

“Um,” Jean replies awkwardly, not sure how to answer that question. “Well, he doesn’t seem… sad.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Bodt corrects, an edge of frustration to her voice that Jean’s not accustomed to hearing. He knows it’s not directed at him, though, but rather out of worry. They stand there, watching Marco and his sister, and she sighs softly.

“I always said that I knew I’d have at least one child who would give me grandchildren,” she remarks suddenly, her eyes fixed on her son. “Margit dislikes children, and who knows what will happen with the other ones. And each person is entitled to their own life. I will love them no matter what they do.”

“What if they kill someone?” Jean quips. “I’m pretty sure Margit would kill anyone who messed with Marco.”

That gets a bark of knowing laughter from Mrs. Bodt, and her eyes crinkle as she smiles. Her smile is more like Margit’s, though, mischievous and pulling no punches. “Even then,” she confirms. “That’s what mothers are for—to help hide the body.”

Jean has to admit that his mother would do the same, a fact for which he feels lucky.

Nonetheless, he’s not sure where this conversation is going. “So, you thought Marco would want children?” he asks curiously, taking a long swallow of his coffee and suddenly wishing it was spiked with something alcoholic.

“No, it’s not that.” She turns to look Jean directly in the eyes, and he’s terrified she’s going to be able to tell he’s being intentionally vague. “You see, all he talked about in his early twenties was wanting a family. He loves kids.”

Jean can’t help the way his eyebrows shoot up, and he does a double take. “Children?”

“I know,” she says with a slight shrug, apparently too bemused with her own child’s previous statements, “a boy his age is usually more concerned with having fun than marriage or a family.”

“So, why are you worried about him?” Jean asks in consternation. “A lot of people say things when they graduate college they later don’t do.

“Well, this was right before he moved to Stohess, so it’s at least in the last two years.” She must read the expression on Jean’s face as judgment, because she quickly adds, “If that’s no longer what he wants, that’s fine, of course. I’m just worried about him, since he seems to basically…” she trails off, raising an eyebrow. “Well, he seems to just be existing. If he’s happy doing that, I’m happy, too.”

“You’re worried because he said one thing, and seems to just…” Jean swallows hard, not expecting his throat to tighten up suddenly. “He seems to just be stuck?” he asks.

“Yes!” Mrs. Bodt says, face lighting up, pointing at Jean. “Something like that. If he’s okay, that’s fine, but that’s why I’m asking you. He hasn’t dated anyone in years, and that doesn’t seem like him.”

Jean groans internally; this might possibly be the most fucked up conversation he’s had in his entire life. 

“He’s okay,” Jean replies confidently. At least he can be truthful about that part; but then, as he watches Marco with his little sisters, an ugly shadow of doubt starts to fall over him. It’s clear Marco really does revel in time with his younger siblings, and Jean has to admit that this quality may not solely lie within the fact that they’re his sisters. Marco does like kids; Jean just hadn’t thought about that fact in awhile. “I think he’s okay,” he adds as a caveat, looking over at Mrs. Bodt in sudden indecision. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I’d rather let him come talk to me when he’s ready,” she says with a slight sigh, then gives Jean a tired smile. “Kids are like that.”

Jean chuckles dryly, shrugging. “My mom’s sure not. She’ll rip it out of me if I don’t fess up to whatever she wants to know.”

“Well, I suppose that approach works if the kid turns out like you did, Jean.” The words make Jean suddenly feel _very_ guilty for not being completely truthful with Marco’s mother, but it’s simply not his place; not to mention now he has a very sharp sense of insecurity biting at his heart. Is Marco really happy?

“I’ll tell her that, because I still drive her crazy,” he laughs a little, trying to keep it light.

“So, is there anyone special in your life?” she asks conversationally.

“Jean!” As if right on cue and sensing Jean needs a rescue, Marco’s voice breaks through as he jogs over to the two of them. “Do you want to take this bushel to the barn so Mattie and Margit can start sorting them?”

“Yes!” Jean squeaks, and Marco gives him an odd look. “Sounds good!” With that, he makes a hasty departure to grab the bushel of apples and make his way off to the barn in relief. It’s not a long walk, but he does it double time to escape.

He was right on the edge of outright lying, or experimenting with double truths, a skill he simply doesn’t have. Marco actually teases him for it, while also admiring his inability to lie.

“You look like a spooked horse at the rate you’re going,” Margit comments as Jean practically runs into the barn and places the bushel of apples on the ground. “What happened?”

Mattie is pointedly ignoring him and turns on her heel to retrieve something from the tool shelf.

Margit rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Wait until she finds out,” she says, chuckling to herself a little. That makes Jean snort; Margit truly is terrifying. “She’s being a brat.”

“Is Buchwald still around?” Jean asks hopefully, eyeing the horse stalls at the other end of the barn. “I know he was pretty old the last time we were here.”

“I got out the saddle that fits him for you,” Margit says without missing a beat, her eyes focused down on the apples. She did something nice, and for a moment, Jean realizes she’s doing the exact same thing _he_ does when he’s embarrassed about doing something sentimental.

“Uh, thanks,” he says awkwardly. “Your mom just asked me if Marco’s okay because he hasn’t dated anyone and said he wanted kids.”

Margit raises an eyebrow, but shrugs a little. “He does want kids—he’s always wanted a family. Some people grow up with a big family and hate it, others want a big family of their own one day.”

Jean swallows hard, and Margit seems to sense his discomfort. “This isn’t something you should be talking to me about,” she says, and for a moment, Jean feels a little wounded since he’s opened to her. “You should be talking to Marco, because only he can answer questions like that.”

Jean releases the breath he was holding, relieved that she’s not being critical of him. Not only that: she’s right.

He sighs in frustration; there’s no way he wants to broach this conversation in the middle of a weekend trip when Marco’s having a good time, and they have little to no privacy together. It’s not a conversation to have while constantly worried about being interrupted.

“I don’t think we’re going to tell anyone about us this weekend,” he finally says, hating the words as they come out of his mouth. He was finally getting ready, wanting to share this fact with Marco’s family, feeling good after the evening before. But now, he realizes he’s not even sure he can answer Marco’s mother’s question about whether her son is really happy.

Marco moved to Stohess for him, stayed away from home for him, has done many things for him. And what has he done for Marco?

“I wouldn’t mind going for a ride,” he finally says. “Especially before it gets hot.”

Margit laughs a little, shaking her head. “Sorry to break it to you, city boy, but it’s never going to get hot, even if it’s sunny out today.”

He just grunts, feeling a little miserable, but nods. He knows where Buchwald and the gear is, and he goes off to saddle up. He’ll probably go back to Marco and his sisters before taking off into the acres surrounding the Bodt household; most likely, Marco will get on his own horse to ride with Jean. It’s one of his favorite activities, and unsurprisingly, he’s excellent with horses.

“Jean,” Margit says suddenly, tossing him an apple and looking over her shoulder to make sure Mattie is still sulking out of earshot, “you’re a pain in the ass, but I’d be glad to have you as part of our family. You make Marco happy.”

Jean just stares at her in disbelief, unmoving, and then jumps as Mattie comes loudly around the corner carrying a few empty bushels and a rake.

“Uh…” he stammers, but then Margit is gone out to the apple pickers to give them the fresh bushels, and almost immediately Mattie makes herself scarce again.

“Well, shit,” he says, turning slowly to make his way over to his favorite Bodt horse out of the three they own.

Buchwald whinnies softly when he sees Jean, and Jean smiles. “Finally,” he says, reaching out stroke the horse’s forehead, “someone I like who can’t say shit back.”

There’s a huff and a slight shaking of his head, and Jean puts both hands up, laughing a little. “Fair, fair… I know, you don’t need words to say stuff.” That seems to earn favor, and Jean leads Buchwald out of the stall onto the gangplank. He makes short work of the saddle and gear, knowing how to put it on like the back of his hand after years of Marco’s painstaking (and patient) instruction, and he also leads Marco’s horse out.

Sir Clip Clop. Jean still refuses to say it aloud, but he hadn’t been able to get Marco to back down. It all started after one of the Bodt sisters became so fixated on naming the horse Sir Clip Clop, he’d taken pity on her.

Marco explained later to Jean—who’d just stared at him, more out of pity for the horse’s dignity than anything else—that it was because she had been devouring lots of young adult fantasy books far above her supposed reading level, and he wanted to encourage her.

Jean had thought it was absurd; Marco had just shrugged and held his ground with an easy smile. And thus, Sir Clip Clop’s origin story was written on par with a legitimate super hero.

Sir Clip Clop also doesn’t seem to mind the name, and Jean will at least concede that he does indeed make a heavy clip-clop sound when he walks.

He saddles up Marco’s horse, and then happily mounts Buchwald, feeling suddenly lighter as he steers both horses out of the barn and toward the orchard.

When he first started learning to ride, he never thought he’d be able to control a horse. It felt like driving a giant car that could get mad and had no brakes, but eventually, he started to understand why Marco loved it so much.

Now, although not an expert by any means, he’s more comfortable on Buchwald than he is in his own car.

“Hey,” he calls, approaching the area where Margit has supplied the empty bushels and a few more of the Bodt crew have shown up, “you want to take a ride?”

Marco’s face lights up, ruddy with the cold and his eyes bright. “Sir Clip Clop!” he enthuses, striding over to the horse who immediately nuzzles him in warm greeting. “Great idea, Jean. It’s so nice out—let’s go into the forest.”

The younger sister who named Sir Clip Clop, now at least fourteen, stares sullenly at the two of them. She’s wearing a black beanie, hair tucked up underneath, heavy black eyeliner, and is hiding behind a scarf that’s clearly not intended for cold weather.

Jean just stares; Margery rarely ventures out when he’s been around, usually because she was cooped up in her room reading. However, the last time he remembers seeing her, he’s positive that she was at least a foot shorter.

“Are you going to pick some apples, Margery?” Marco asks cheerfully as he pulls himself up onto Sir Clip Clop. “I think Sir Clip Clop likes them.”

“Stop saying that name,” she mumbles, scowling at the ground with her hands shoved into the green army jacket she’s wearing. “It’s stupid. I can’t believe you kept it.”

Marco looks taken aback, though Jean knows it’s not serious. “I love this name!” he exclaims, clicking his tongue and leading Sir Clip Clop over to Margery. “He does, too. You can’t just change a person’s name.”

“He’s not a person,” Margery retorts, scowling, but belies her expression by petting Sir Clip Clop’s nose. “He’s a horse.”

“Same thing,” says Mrs. Bodt, chuckling, and no one argues with that. 

“If you pick a few dozen apples by the time we’re back,” Marco informs his sisters, though his eye is cast specifically at Margery, “I’ll help mom bake apple strudel.”

It is a fact known throughout the Bodt household that although their mother is a wonderful baker, Marco’s inherited the talent, and then some.

“I’m not picking any shitty apples,” she grumbles, stepping back from the moment of good nature she had to huddle into herself. “That’s for kids.”

“ _I’m_ picking shitty apples!” sings Margit, and Jean has to stifle a laugh.

“Girls! Language!” Mrs. Bodt rebukes without any real heat. She does cast a slightly worried glance at Margery, though, who just frowns.

Marco just shrugs. “Suit yourself. At least pick one for Sir Clip Clop!”

When she doesn’t immediately say no, he turns with his horse and takes off in a brisk trot. “See you all in a little while!”

Jean follows suit, hustling to catch up, and then they let their horses walk side by side through the adjacent meadow. There’s still frost on the long grasses, but the sun is slowly starting to color the pale morning sky.

“It’s nice out here,” Marco says companionably, his voice relaxed and warm. “I missed it.”

Jean glances over at him, feeling guilty all over again, but Marco doesn’t seem to be thinking about much of anything except being in the outdoors. Just like his encouragement for his difficult little sister, he takes everything as it is.

“Your mom looked stressed about Margery,” Jean remarks awkwardly, wishing his mouth moved slower than his thoughts sometimes. 

“Oh,” Marco remarks confidently with a shrug, “she’ll be fine. I’ve seen more than a few of them go through this age. She’s sulky, but she’s really smart.”

“What if she has legitimate mental problems?” Jean asks with wide eyes, glancing over at Marco. Suddenly, the thought of such a fate seems terrifying, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have temperamental younger siblings; or siblings at all, considering he can barely even deal with his own shit, much less anyone else’s.

“If she has actual mental illness,” Marco replies reasonably, “my mom can handle it. I don’t think that’s what it is, though.” He shrugs a little, absently pulling his scarf more tightly around his neck and stopping Sir Clip Clop so he can munch on some grass. “I think she’s just smart, and the world is awful to teenage girls.”

“Uh,” Jean replies awkwardly, not knowing what to say to this wisdom that is apparently simply common sense, “I don’t know anything about… kids.”

Marco cocks his head to the side, and Jean immediately regrets his choice of words, watching as the gears spin in his fiancé’s head.

And it hits him, quite suddenly, that maybe Marco shouldn’t be his fiancé; that maybe this entire thing was too fast, that he has no idea what kind of life Marco even wants, much less if he could meet the expectations.

Unexpectedly, Jean finds Marco’s hand on his shoulder, their horses close enough to touch, and he squeezes, giving an easy smile. “C’mon,” he says companionably, “let’s go into the woods. I bet there are leaves are all over the ground!” He says it joyously, like a kid, and Jean can’t help but smile and roll his eyes.

“Okay, whatever,” he snarks, waiting for Marco’s shit eating grin.

“You’re worse than Margery!” he crows, before turning his horse sharply to the left and speeding up to a trot.

Jean immediately follows, not one to be shown up, and he falls into stride easily. They ride together in comfortable silence as they enter the forest and make their way down the well-tread path.

It’s wonderfully quiet, and most of the trees are bare, true to Marco’s guess. The entire ground is a mass of burning red and orange leaves, not yet down long enough to brown and crisp.

“Must’ve been a strong wind last night,” Marco reasons, craning his head around to meet Jean’s eyes who’s now riding behind him in single file. “But it’s pretty.”

Jean hums, enjoying the quietude; he has to admit, although he’s definitely “city folk,” as Marco’s mother put it, riding a horse through an autumnal forest has its good points.

“Hey,” Marco starts conversationally, “do you remember the first time we ever went out on the horses?”

“I guess so,” Jean replies, enjoying the gentle rock of Buchwald’s body under him, rhythmic and reassuring. “I was pretty bad at it.”

“You don’t remember, then.”

“Remember what?” Jean leans over to flick Marco in the arm since the path is wide enough for them to ride next to each other now, and he just grins.

“When you got hit in the head by a branch and fell off!” He just stares at Jean, as if incredulous he doesn’t recall, and then Jean remembers. “We nearly had to call an ambulance for my mom right after we called one for you. We thought you had a concussion!”

“Well, it was my fault for gallivanting off into the woods when I’d never ridden a horse,” Jean admits, shaking his head. He used to be kind of a stupid shit, he is well aware. “Wasn’t that the first time I ever even came here?”

Marco laughs, shaking his head. “It was the morning after you dissed the hay ride, so I thought it’d be cool if I showed you the horses.”

“It _was_ cool,” Jean chuckles, shaking his head. “I was probably just trying to show off.”

“You know, that’s the first time…” Marco’s voice trails off, and when Jean looks over, he’s surprised to see a slight blush on Marco’s cheeks. 

“What?” he asks expectantly, widening his eyes.

Marco shrugs, a silly smile on his face. “That was the first time—when I was scared that something really bad had happened—that I realized I wanted to know you forever.”

Jean laughs, ignoring the swell of emotion in his chest, but it’s not unkind; when Marco smiles warmly at the reaction, Jean knows it hasn’t been taken the wrong way.

“You mean you had the hots for me freshman year, right?” he teases, giving Marco a cocky grin and raising an eyebrow. “Bringing me home, letting me ride your horses? What a perv.”

“Nope,” Marco says curtly with a cheerful smile, “you were way too obnoxious to have the hots over.” And before Jean can recover from his sputtering and retort with a comeback, Marco speeds his horse up and gallops ahead down the path.

“Hey!” Jean finally manages, immediately breaking into a gallop to catch up.

He just hears Marco laugh, as bright as the morning has become, and he smiles.

They ride for ten minutes, simply admiring the scenery and trees, until they come to a familiar stream that the horses drink from. The water is confirmed fresh, and the Bodts have been watering their horses as well as swimming in this stream for a decade or more.

Jean hazards a look over at Marco who’s got a firm, steady grip on Sir Clip Clop’s reins, and he looks lost in thought.

“This is nice,” Jean finally says into the stillness, and Marco looks over at him, startled out of his thoughts.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” he says, smiling a little. There’s a short silence, but then, for some reason, it quickly becomes uncomfortable. “Um… do you still want to tell them?”

Jean clears his throat awkwardly, staring down into the water.

“I don’t know if now is the right time.”

As Marco bites his lip, Jean sees sadness flash in his eyes, but then it’s tamped down.

And Jean realizes that Marco has been withholding a lot of things he’s apparently wanted for a long time—a family and kids, the outdoors, a horse with a dumb name, a quiet home—none of which are Jean’s strong point.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted kids so bad?” he asks suddenly, staring at Marco. “Or that you wanted to live in the country?”

“What?” Marco asks with wide eyes, looking totally taken aback.

“When we agreed to… be together,” Jean says, frowning and hating the words as he says them, “you never told me any of this stuff.” When Marco just stares at him helplessly, clearly baffled as to where this is all coming from. Instead of asking, though, he just looks down now, swallowing hard, petting Sir Clip Clop’s mane dejectedly.

“I think we should put off the engagement,” Jean says without thinking, heart pounding. 

As if on cue, Buchwald raises his head from the stream and looks at Jean with a worried expression, most likely because of the way Jean just tensed.

It’s not a planned statement, and he immediately feels horrible as Marco’s face falls.

“I don’t mean forever,” Jean continues awkwardly, trying to catch up with his own mouth, “I just mean until we… well, until you…”

“What?” Marco says, and his voice is uncharacteristically terse and cold. “Until you feel like dealing with it?”

That catches Jean off guard, and his mouth snaps shut. “What’s that supposed to mean?” This isn’t about him or what he wants; this is about how he can’t give Marco what he wants, how much of an idiot he’s been by overlooking all the things that Marco hasn’t said, but were so obvious.

“ _You_ ,” Marco says, jabbing a finger at him, “can’t deal with a bump in the road, so you expect me to just nod and agree. Well, I don’t agree.”

Marco rarely talks out of turn unless necessary, and it’s even more rare he talks about his own desires or shows frustration like this. Usually, it’s him dealing with Jean and trying to meet halfway. They’re usually successful, especially after all these years, but not always.

Jean also has a very bad stubborn streak.

“You’d rather I said forever?” he challenges. “That I said I don’t want to marry you at all?”

“No,” Marco replies tartly, backing his horse away from the stream. “I’d prefer you actually talk to me about what’s bothering you.”

“Nothing was bothering me until your mom started asking me about why you weren’t dating anyone and how you wouldn’t shut up about wanting kids and a family before you moved to Stohess!” Jean barks, scowling darkly at Marco. This isn’t his fault—he didn’t come here planning to suddenly have a revelation that Marco is currently getting _nothing_ that he professed to want only a short time ago.

He knows the statement was a mistake, though, the minute Marco blinks at him, obviously conflicted.

“That’s a shitty way to say it,” he finally whispers. Jean immediately feels his heart wither—he hates making Marco unhappy—and it’s rare Marco doesn’t let it just bounce off him. Marco’s actually very good at not letting other people’s negative feelings and moods get to him, but Jean supposes this is a bit different.

Jean sighs, biting his lip. “You’re right,” he concedes. “And it’s not your fault, or your mom’s fault. I’m sorry.” He silently congratulates himself on his adulting skills and waits for the verdict.

There’s a short silence, until Marco finally looks up. “Did she say it in a bad way?”

“No,” Jean answers truthfully. “I think she’s just worried about you. I just said you seemed okay.”

“So, you want to put off our engagement?” Marco questions, no longer looking angry or even sad, just tired.

Jean swallows hard, but he forces himself to speak. “It sounded like you’ve always wanted to have a family and move back up here, live in the middle of nowhere, and make centerpieces and shit. You didn’t even want to move to Trost, remember?” The more Jean talks, the more he realizes how much he’s actually overlooked. “And now we’re in Stohess, a place you didn’t even choose to live, and we’re just… there. There are barely even any trees there, and our kitchen is smaller than the bedroom.”

For a moment, he’s hoping Marco will deny it—that he does want to be in Stohess, and just didn’t realize this entire time, that their paths make sense together—but much to Jean’s heartache, he just shrugs.

Marco laughs humorlessly and shrugs. “Fine,” he says, not elaborating.

“I—”

Marco cuts Jean off abruptly, not allowing him to continue. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Much to Jean’s horror, his voice is actually choked. “We can talk about it back in Stohess. I just want to enjoy the rest of my time here.”

“Okay,” Jean whispers, staring down into the water, the word “my” instead of “our” stinging badly. “Yeah.”

They don’t ride together for much longer; Jean apologizes and mumbles that he’s going to ride on his own for awhile, that Marco should go back to his family and spend time with them.

It almost hurts more when Marco simply agrees, does a 180, and gallops away with that fluidity he’s always possessed with horses. In fact, he has an ease with most living things—a gentleness that’s not without steely determination behind it, but still, Marco knows how to handle things the way they need to be handled.

Jean tries not to think about it. He also tries to ignore the tears in his eyes, blinking them away as he ventures further into the forest, trying to breathe.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—smell the trees, listen to the birds, feel the air.

_“Inhale, exhale, that’s it. You’re going to be fine.”_

_The voice is far away, but since Jean can’t see anything, he figures he might as well follow the instructions._

_Distantly, he also hears the very distressed voice of his college roommate, but he can’t make out what’s being said._

_“The ambulance is on the way, Mom,” comes Marco’s voice—ah, yes, that’s his name, Marco—and he wraps his hand around Jean’s. “Can you hear me?”_

_Jean’s eyes flutter open, and he focuses on Marco; he looks terrified, his brow furrowed in distress, staring expectantly. A woman who looks eerily similar stands a few feet behind him, looking similarly horrified._

_“What happened?” Jean croaks, groaning and moving to sit up. Marco holds him in place._

_“Don’t move yet,” he instructs, shaking his head. “You got hit by a low hanging branch on Buchwald.”_

_“Mm,” Jean hums, breathing in deeply. “Fuck.”_

_“Hey,” Marco says, “you’re going to be fine. Just don’t fall asleep, okay?” He breathes deeply himself, worry gleaming in his eyes, but Jean keeps his eyes open. “Smell the trees?”_

_Jean smiles stupidly and nods, even though it makes him feel dizzy. “Smells like pine trees. We don’t have pine trees in Trost.”_

_Apparently, this confession puts Marco at ease a little bit, and he relaxes marginally._

_“Did a pine tree hit me? Fuck pine trees.” He groans, pain flaring in his shoulder suddenly. “Think my shoulder is messed up.”_

_“A pine tree didn’t hit you. It was some other tree.”_

_“Fuck the other tree.”_

_Marco laughs, but he looks relieved, shaking his head. “You’re not supposed to try to gallop on your first time out on a horse, Jean.”_

_“Is the horse okay?”_

_“Buchwald? He’s fine,” Marco answers. “He actually stopped when you fell and turned around. I think he likes you.”_

_“Why do you like me?” Jean asks, feeling a little more faint and woozy. “I’m the type of tree that’s an asshole—I’ll knock you on your ass and scare your horses.”_

_“Jean, do not close your eyes. Listen to the birds, and just breathe, okay? Feel how nice it is today?”_

_“Coming through!” Suddenly, Marco’s hand disappears—much to Jean’s deep dismay—and suddenly he’s on a gurney, being trundled back through the woods toward in the direct of the main road._

_Marco was with him all the way to the hospital, there for his release a few hours later with his arm in a sling, there to help him with his books once they were back at school, there for him when he couldn’t quite manage to get his food in the cafeteria for a few weeks._

“He took care of me,” Jean says softly as he gives Buchwald’s neck a few familiar pats. “Remember when I fell off you that time? It was right here.”

Buchwald gives a snort, as if to acknowledge that, yes, he does remember when some dumbass riding him without a clue fell on his ass.

Jean stands with Buchwald in the clearing near where he fell all those years ago, not knowing which direction the earth or sky was in until he heard Marco’s voice telling him an ambulance was coming after he hit the ground.

He dismounts Buchwald, pulling his scarf off now that the sun is shining, and leads him by the reins further into the clearing. 

The grove where he went down is actually very pretty, and the following summer, Jean and Marco had come here one lazy day in some random fit of wanderlust.

They’d ridden all afternoon, since at that point, Jean had finally gotten the hang of it and had stopped overestimating how much he could do on pure luck and natural skill alone. 

To his surprise, Marco had unexpectedly stopped, hopped off Sir Clip Clop, and bent eagerly to pick up a stone. It was flat and dark, probably a displaced river stone from the nearby stream.

Jean looks down now, studying the cold ground and sees a few stones of a similar type, letting a bittersweet smile crawl across his face.

The first really personal detail Jean learned about Marco outside the big stuff, like who he had a crush on in grade school and just how terrified he was of Margit growing up, is that he’s really into rocks. He likes stones—any kind, from almost anywhere—but especially flat ones that can skip across water.

Whenever Jean would come to visit, they’d find as many flat stones as they could to skip across the stream or venture further out to the lake to refine their technique. Those days felt like the summer camp experience Jean never had as a kid, since he spent most of his time alone.

Somewhat ironically, Marco was awful at skipping stones, and Jean joked that he should just keep the ones he found if he was so “weirdly into rocks.” Instead of looking offended like most people would in response to Jean’s (often unwittingly) sharp tongue, though, Marco had simply replied, “Good idea.”

There is a reason that there are now rocks resting on nearly every surface of their apartment—the window sill, the back of the toilet tank, the bedside table, above the kitchen sink, the TV, and any other surface Marco can find to place decorative elements.

Jean just lets him do it; there’s something oddly comforting about having evidence of Marco’s borderline obsessive hobby everywhere, especially since it had been Jean’s idea.

Jean has ensured that over the years, not a single rock has been lost, even though all of them together probably weigh more than a boulder; another memory surfaces. 

_“Aren’t you bringing your rock collection?” Jean’s horrified as he watches Marco separate all the things he’s bringing to Stohess from the things to get rid of._

_Marco looks up in surprise, eyes wide. “Not all of them,” he explains, raising an eyebrow, as if confused by Jean’s outburst. “But I don’t need all of them. There’s not enough space, and they’re heavy.”_

_“I think you should bring them. I’ll carry them.” Jean knows he looks a little wild-eyed, as if Marco giving up part of his rock collection will be later confirmation that he’s making a huge mistake, but he just earns an odd look._

_“Um,” Marco says, slowly dragging the box of rock rejects back toward him, “okay, if you really want me to.”_

_“I like the rocks.”_

_“Jean,” Marco says, standing up to frown mildly at Jean, brushing his hands off, “what’s wrong? You’re acting weird.”_

_He’s wearing one of the new t-shirts he just bought at a concert they’d gone to together, and it looks really good on him._

_Really good._

_Jean curses himself internally._

_“I just… don’t want you leave anything behind,” Jean says lamely, shrugging a little. “I don’t want you to regret something.”_

_Marco’s face softens, and he gets close, shaking his head and giving one of his easy hugs. “I’m not going to regret anything,” he murmurs. “Just don’t tell me the bring the rocks and then make me carry them all up the stairs to a walk-up.”_

_Jean laughs, pulling back awkwardly, suddenly uneasy at how nice Marco’s arms feel around him—how natural—and a whole new world makes itself known in that moment._

_It was when they were arguing over whether putting rocks on the back of the toilet with a scented candle (Marco’s idea) in the new place was “too gay” (Jean’s words), and started rough housing like morons, that they ended up kissing for the first time._

“You know what’s weird?” Jean says softly to Buchwald as he bends to pluck up a stone. “I don’t think he ever actually kept one from here.”

The one he’s picked is smooth and dark, typical for the area and exactly like the handfuls they used to collect, and he suddenly notices it’s in the shape of a heart.

“What the fuck?” he asks, looking up at the sky, feeling his chin tremble. “Is this for real?”

Buchwald appears out of nowhere and nuzzles him with a soft sound, and Jean finally turns and cries. The tears are silent, but he can’t stop sniffling, and finally he his face against Buchwald’s warm neck and strokes him; the horse just allows it, standing there as Jean cries, making concerned snuffling sounds.

“I’m such a goddamn idiot,” he murmurs. “But he won’t…” He shakes his head angrily, scrubbing the tears away from his eyes in frustration. “He won’t talk to me about anything!”

He gets a horse stare, which somehow always appears to be judging, and he just shakes his head. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault.”

Buchwald huffs.

“I know I could’ve asked! Well, maybe that’s true, but…” He sighs deeply, remembering being on the ground, staring up at Marco’s eyes and the sky, and feeling like everything would be okay; he _believed_ Marco. 

He remembers what Marco said before: it was the first time he knew he wanted to know Jean forever.

“Fuck,” Jean mumbles, sniffling a little, forcing himself to get it together. “Who cares who’s right or wrong. What am I _doing_ here without him?”

As he slips the heart-shaped river rock into his pocket, he feels dread start to settle heavy in his stomach. He’s made a terrible mistake—postponing telling Marco’s parents? Yes, fine.

“I told him I didn’t want to marry him, not that I wanted to wait to tell them,” he murmurs as he hops back onto Buchwald, directing him briskly back the way they came. “That’s what I said.”

Buchwald gives an outraged sounding whinny, and goes a little faster when Jean prompts him.

“Watch out for branches,” Jean murmurs, snorting a little, but he gets low until he get to a decent speed through the forest. He knows the twists and turns of this path like the back of his hand now. 

_“I’ve been thinking,” Jean says nonchalantly one evening as he makes dinner._

_Marco comes up behind him, kissing the back of his neck, letting hands linger on Jean’s hips through the sweatpants he’s wearing._

_“Hm?” he hums, settling down at their tiny table to flip through the Sunday newspaper he gets every morning, always the hardcopy. He says it’s a habit he inherited from his father._

_“I think there are some things that we could do for um, tax benefits.”_

_Marco looks up sharply, cocking his head to the side. “Like what?”_

_They’ve been dating officially for six months, but they’ve been together much longer than that; and it’s become pretty clear since the move to Stohess that Marco has no plans of going anywhere else._

_Jean’s not sure if he personally ever did anyway._

_“Like, a domestic partnership.”_

_“Oh,” Marco replies, and for some reason Jean can’t place, he looks a little crestfallen. Jean immediately panics, thinking he’s gone too far, until Marco puts on a smile and nods. “I’d really like that.”_

_“Cool,” Jean replies, turning back to the stove. “Makes sense, right? If we’re going to be together…” This does make him smile a little, turning to sneak a look at Marco, feeling like an idiot all the while but unable to bring himself to care; this makes the small smile on Marco’s face grow into a real one._

_“Yeah,” he replies softly. “Exactly.”_

_Jean finishes dinner and sets Marco’s plate in front of him with an especially affectionate kiss—he’s not always the best with words, but he knows Marco understands—and settles on the other side of the table. It’s painfully domestic, and he loves it._

_“Anything cool in the paper?”_

_“Do we wear rings?”_

_“Huh?” Jean asks in a undignified fashion, his eyes wide and mouth full. “Rings?”_

_“Well, we’re…” he hesitates, eyeing Jean carefully. “We’re getting married, right?”_

_When Marco says the word, it suddenly occurs to Jean that maybe this means something a bit different to Marco than to him._

_“I mean, yeah, effectively,” he agrees, reaching out to take Marco’s hand in some sign of reassurance, even though he’s not completely sure what he’s trying to convince Marco of. “Do you want a ring?”_

_Marco just looks at him, as if unsure of what to say, and Jean squeezes his hand. “Do you want to say we’re engaged?”_

_This apparently makes Marco very happy, and he smiles radiantly; it’s so delighted, it’s almost blinding, and Jean feels a swell of exhilaration that he’s responsible for that emotion in the person he loves most in the world next to his mother._

_“Yeah, let’s say that.”_

Jean sighs at himself again as they approach the orchard, thoughts flashing through his mind lightening quick, a montage of memories that all make him suddenly realize how much he was missing until now.

“He wanted a ring,” he murmurs, shaking his head, looking for Marco desperately. 

And Jean realizes: he hopes Marco still does.

He hopes that he hasn’t blown it, because even though he knows very well that Marco would never stop caring about him, he just basically broke off an engagement.

Finally, he sees a person as he gets closer to the barn; it’s Margit, and she gives him a filthy look.

“What’d you say?” she demands, pointing at him as she chucks an apple into the bushel angrily. “He looked like he was going to cry when he got back here.”

“He _is_ a sap!” Jean exclaims, halting Buchwald awkwardly and practically jumping off.

Margit just gives him a strange look; obviously even she’s not expecting this bizarre outburst, and Jean realizes how off the wall he must sound.

“Look,” he barks, pointing his finger, “I get it now. He’s a sap. He likes rings, and the woods, and kids, and centerpieces. God, he even likes scented candles. He’s domestic as fuck.”

“Gee,” Margit deadpans, pushing Jean’s hand aside and striding past him to take Buchwald’s reins, “ya think?”

Jean sputters, expecting a more dramatic response to his boisterous exclamations, but Margit just rolls her eyes. “Did you hit your head or something?” She places her hands on her hips, staring at him, before adding as an afterthought. “Again?”

“I fucked up!” he cries, throwing his hands up in desperation. “I fucked up really bad.”

Jean expects her to ask how, to extract the shameful confession that he’d blurted something out that he hadn’t thought through, that he now wishes he’d never said.

But she doesn’t; she just shakes her head at him disapprovingly, taking Buchwald’s reins to walk him back toward the barn.

“So fix it,” she says simply. “Now, and not later.” She starts to walk away, but then stops again, whirling around to meet Jean’s gaze fiercely. Her eyes are as dark as Marco’s, but she’s got that terrifying, determined glint in them that Jean (and Marco, he’s relatively sure) is afraid of. 

This is a girl who will go miles to protect the things she loves, and she adores Marco.

“Do you know how many people would trip over themselves to be with my brother?” she demands. It’s a simple question, but it’s barbed and pointed; the worst part, though, is that it’s not even spiteful. It’s a legitimate question, because Jean knows very well that the answer is “a lot.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, staring at the ground and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“So, _stop_ being a fuckboy and _fix it_ , whatever it is you need to do,” she repeats. “He loves you.”

And with that, she leaves in a brisk stride, Jean still staring at her with his mouth hanging open.

How she and Marco came from the same gene pool, he’ll never know; at the same time, though, he sort of does.

Marco likes sappy stuff, but he also isn’t someone to be trifled with; Jean knows he has his limits, and unfortunately, he might have actually been pushed to one today.

It’s already late afternoon by the time Jean marches up to the house, and then suddenly he isn’t sure what to do as he stands there at the front door, staring at it.

Instead of charging in, he turns to look out over the Bodts’ property from the porch. The air is chilly and smells like clean wood smoke—probably from the wood burning stove they have inside—and the sky is a clear blue. Beyond the immaculate front yard there’s the orchard, the barn off to the left that houses the horses and supplies, and then an old silo that hasn’t been used in years. This is typical of Jinae, where most of the houses have at least a large shed with a chicken or two.

It’s pretty, and Jean suddenly finds something new in the landscape of the apple trees, brilliantly bright sunlight, and the distant sounds of people laughing in the living room: this is Marco’s home.

Trost was never home for Jean. He liked it okay, and although he was always close with his mother, home was never about a house or place or smell. It was always the _who_ , rather than the where or what. The house he grew up in was a small ranch, pleasant enough—he had his own room, which was pretty cool—and it had a particular smell. But he didn’t mind when he left. 

When Jean thinks of home, he thinks of the smell of his mother’s perfume she only wears on fancy occasions, the warmth and softness of Marco’s skin in the morning under his lips, the rustle of a thick Sunday newspaper, the sound of his favorite music emanating from his huge high school headphones.

But for Marco, this place—with its laughter, apple pie, orchards, horses—is home. 

And he finally understands how the smell of wood smoke in the winter air might bring someone to tears who’s homesick, how Marco has been homesick; but Jean knows that he is also home to Marco.

“I’m going to fix it,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath and brushing his fingers over the stone still in his pocket.

Finally, he swings the door open and is greeted by warmth and the smell of apple pie, and he smiles.

“Wow, that smells awesome,” he enthuses, darting his gaze around for Marco. “Are those all the apples from today?”

“Sure are!” Mrs. Bodt replies as she appears in the doorway to the kitchen. “How was your ride?”

“It was good!” Jean replies, hoping his voice doesn’t sound squeaky as he shrugs off the heavy jacket he’s wearing and kicks off his boots. “Um, Marco went back early though to pick some more apples. Where’d go?”

She cocks her head to the side, searching Jean’s face as if sensing something is off, but he holds his own and just waits.

“He did,” she says, “and he’s upstairs taking a nap.”

Jean laughs nervously, shrugging a little. “He really does sleep a lot after traveling.”

“Right,” she replies, casting a look toward the stairway that leads to the second floor. She taps her hip nervously until eyeing Jean thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jean sighs, almost relieved she asked in her own way if there was something awry. “I think I said something that annoyed him.”

Her face relaxes, and she nods. “Marco always gets a little nostalgic this time of year. Apple picking was his favorite pastime as a child, and I think he misses it sometimes.” She smiles a little, motioning for Jean to follow her into the kitchen, and pointing at a large pot on the stove. “Mulled apple cider with cinnamon sticks.” She smiles kindly, pulling two mugs out of the cupboard and ladling cider into each. “Take some up to him—this recipe is his favorite.”

Jean smiles gratefully, hoping his nerves aren’t obvious as she ladles some into each cup, and swallows hard. He’s not sure what Marco’s going to say when they see each other, but he knows he did indeed fuck up substantially. For a moment, it’s almost comforting to believe his own white lie, that he said something to “annoy Marco.”

More like break his heart, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

“Thanks,” he replies, nodding gratefully at Marco’s mother.

“We’re having an early dinner since we wanted to have pie and play a board game.” She looks melancholy as she adds, “You boys have to leave tomorrow afternoon, and it already seems too soon.”

Jean nods, suddenly feeling the sentiment more strongly than ever. “Yeah, okay… I’ll wake him up.”

The house is warm even on the second floor as Jean ascends the stairs, careful not to spill the delicious smelling beverages he’s toting. When he reaches the landing to the third floor—only a few steps up to the attic—he hesitates, steeling himself for what he might see.

Marco sitting there, furious at him? Marco amidst a sea of tissues, crying over him? Some other awful sight?

Instead, when he nudges the door open with his hip, he sees Marco lying on the bed (air mattress still thankfully limp on the floor), scrolling through his phone.

He glances up at Jean coolly, offering a polite little smile, but Jean does note his eyes are red. He undoubtedly cried, but he doesn’t admit to it, barely even shows it.

Once again, Jean realizes just how much he’s missed.

“What are you reading?” he asks conversationally as he shuts the door behind him, setting down the mugs on the nightstand and taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

“The news,” Marco answers quietly, his eyes immediately fixed back on his phone, not looking at Jean. “It’s almost Sunday, and I know I’m not getting my newspaper tomorrow.”

When Jean offers an affectionate rub of Marco’s shoulder and a move to grab the mug, Marco rolls onto his side, his back to Jean.

“I’ll drink it later,” he says stubbornly, huddling into himself. “I just want to read.”

Jean takes a deep breath, staring at Marco’s back, debating what to do. 

“Also,” he says suddenly, and Jean looks up hopefully, “I want to stay here a few days longer. You can go back tomorrow.”

And that’s that—it’s apparently that simple, that Jean can leave, and Marco can stay, and that’s just how it will be.

“Are you leaving me?” Jean croaks, unable to stop himself from saying it. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, but he can’t help it.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” Marco retorts, his expression incredulous as he rolls onto his back again to stare up at Jean. “After what you said?”

“No!” Jean immediately replies, attempting a desperate save. He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “No,” he repeats, his voice stronger, “I just don’t want to go home alone.”

Marco’s face softens as soon as Jean says the word “home,” and he hesitates. 

“I understand,” Jean tries to stop the hitch in his breath, “if you want to spend time with your family alone, but if you want to stay, I’ll stay, too.”

“What about work?” Marco asks quietly, his voice soft and eyes downcast, as if unable to believe what he’s hearing.

“Armin will understand. I have tons of sick time and I never call in.”

Marco just stares at him, and Jean stares back; this continues until they both start in surprise at the sound of Mrs. Bodt’s voice at the bottom of the stairs.

“Boys! Dinner in ten minutes!”

“Thanks, mom!” Marco shouts back, rolling his eyes at Jean like a petulant child at the interruption. 

Jean laughs a little, shaking his head. Marco loves his family, but he can be just as much of a brat as his younger siblings given the right moment. No family is perfect like a sitcom, not even the Bodts.

He looks surprised when Jean grabs his hand and squeezes, before reaching over to grab the hot apple cider and offer to him. “It smells really good.”

To his relief, Marco finally sits up hesitantly to take a sip, and then his eyes fall shut. “Mm, that’s good,” he murmurs, nodding. “Wow, I always forget how good the cider up here is.”

Jean takes a sip of his own cider, swallowing gratefully, and nods in agreement; then realizes he has ten minutes or less to say what he wants to before dinner, when everyone else is there.

“Um,” he stammers, “I was thinking…” 

Marco looks hesitant, keeping his eyes fixed on his knees under the blanket, but he doesn’t immediately shut down the conversation. “Yeah?” he finally acknowledges softly.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Jean murmurs. “It came out wrong.”

That earns a surprised look, and Marco bites his lip. “How was it supposed to come out?” he asks softly, allowing the interaction to continue despite the pain in his expression.

“I don’t want to put it off,” Jean says quickly, staring at Marco intensely, refusing to filter his words or let his own nerves get in the way. “I want to be with you.”

Marco is staring at him now with wide eyes—Jean isn’t exactly known for dramatic displays of affection—but when he tries to keep going, he realizes there isn’t much else to say.

“I want to be with you,” he repeats, but then frowns a little. “But you have to talk to me more.”

That earns a slightly guilty look from Marco as he drops his eyes, but he nods once. “I honestly didn’t really think about it,” he finally says softly, still not looking at Jean. “About all the things my mom asked you, and the future.” He finally looks up to meet Jean’s eyes, dark and vulnerable, and he gives a timid little half-smile. “I want to be with you, too.” 

Jean heaves a sigh, exhausted from the emotional day, and drops onto the bed to stretch out next to Marco and lean his head against one strong shoulder. “We don’t have to put anything off,” he says, his voice muffled against Marco’s shirt as he rolls over so that they’re front to front. “We just need to talk more.”

That earns a relieved sigh, and then gentle fingers comb through Jean’s unruly hair. “That works for me,” he replies, pressing a kiss against the top of Jean’s head. “My mom was right—I used to talk about wanting a lot of things, but actually _doing_ them is different. Like kids.”

Jean nods a little, slowly allowing the idea of children to filter into his mind. It’s not that he’s particularly opposed to children; he’s simply never thought about it. There are a lot of things they haven’t discussed, but there are also a lot of things that Jean isn’t actually against.

But there’s something he wants to ask right now, and he takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. 

“There’s one more thing I wanted to say, because—”

They both jerk as suddenly as the sound of Marco’s mother’s voice calls up the stairs again. “Dinner’s ready! C’mon down!”

“Okay, mom!” Marco shouts back, his voice strained. He looks back at Jean intently, setting his apple cider down on the table next to the bed. “What were you going to say?” he asks quietly.

“It can wait until after dinner,” Jean coughs self-consciously, smiling a little and offering his hand as he stands up. When Marco looks at him dubiously, he nods. “Promise.”

That seems to satisfy Marco’s hesitance, and he sits up and stretches. Jean tries not to watch the way his shirt rides up his flat stomach ever so slightly, knowing now is not the time to be distracted by how hot his boyfriend (fiancé? hopefully still fiancé) is, but nonetheless.

“Perv,” Marco says softly, his gaze less cold now as he looks at Jean; affectionate even.

Jean leans forward to kiss his cheek and then rest his forehead against Marco’s temple. “I’m not leaving without you,” he declares softly. That earns a shuddery little sigh, but when Jean grabs Marco’s hand and squeezes, he finally just nods instead of starting another disagreement. “Let’s go have dinner.”

“Okay,” Marco replies quietly, swinging his legs off the bed as he stands.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Jean says, rising as well and kissing Marco again. “I need to change because I smell like horse.”

That earns a genuine laugh, and Marco smiles, glancing up at Jean almost shyly. It’s clear he wants to reconcile—Marco’s always hated fighting—but Jean also knows very well that he won’t do so until things really are settled. Marco’s never been one to pretend everything is fine once a subject has been broached.

“You’ll fit right in with the rest of us, smelling like a horse,” Marco replies with a shrug before making his way out of the room. 

Jean watches him go, tracing the familiar outline of his back fondly, the strong shoulder blades and perfect posture, but Marco suddenly turns.

“We’ll finish talking later?” he asks again, as if not believing Jean will actually follow through.

Jean nods reassuringly. “I promise.” He grins a little, teasing to lighten the mood. “If I can’t wait, I’ll pass you a note under the table, okay?”

Marco rolls his eyes and snorts, but this seems to please him, and he looks more relaxed.

“See you downstairs,” he says, and then disappears down the stairs and shuts the door behind him.

Jean allows his face to go slack, releasing the tension he’s been withholding since he first walked into the room, and lets out a heavy sigh. Tawny evening light filters in pleasantly through the single window, and it makes him feel a bit more at ease.

Since the bedroom is technically an attic, the ceiling slopes down sharply and isn’t very large, but it was a privilege Marco had while growing up to have his own room. There are still posters on the ceiling of bands Jean recalls vaguely from his youth, though most of them are mainstream pop bands he only remembers being on the radio. There are a few framed photos on the old dresser, and Jean goes over to idly investigate as he retrieves new clothes.

Marco always insists on unpacking all his clothes when he goes home. It’s a weird ritual that Jean stopped questioning years ago, since he even did it during college. It’s not as if he’s bringing an oversized suitcase full of clothing, but he still likes to put his socks and underwear in one drawer, his t-shirts in another, and his pants in yet another. It’s a Marco quirk that Jean has simply grown to accept.

The photos on the dresser aren’t new—they’re the ones he’s seen a thousand times of Marco in kindergarten with the same haircut he has now, Marco in a dorky Halloween costume that Jean had been informed with great mortification has been Margit’s the year before, and then Marco with his college diploma.

Jean smiles a little as he examines that one more closely, sliding open the drawer and retrieving a pair of his own pants, since their clothes are right next to each other. He goes along with the clothes unpacking, even though he doesn’t get it, but he likes sharing space with Marco.

The college graduation picture is mostly Marco, but there’s Jean behind him, grinning like a doofus over his shoulder. 

“God,” he murmurs to himself, kicking off the jeans he’s wearing that reek of horse, “we were such dorks.”

He hasn’t been paying attention, though, and as he pulls on the new pair of jeans he’s retrieved from the dresser, he realizes they’re far too long and clearly not his. Although he likes sharing space with Marco, sometimes it’s annoying when their clothes get mixed up.

However, before he shimmies out of them, he hears a rustling and frowns slightly, investigating in the pocket.

Inside, he finds a note—which also means Marco hasn’t washed these jeans since the last time he wore them, a point of information Jean will harass him about next time Marco starts in with the laundry orations—and he grins a little as he reads it.

It’s his own scratchy handwriting, and he’d left it under the large geode that lives next to their front door.

_can you pick up coffee? but not that shitty stuff like my mom drinks. the real stuff. you know what i mean._

Jean starts to laugh now as he sees underneath own chicken scratch handwriting, Marco’s impeccable printed letters: _Don’t forget to tell Jean there’s five pounds of his coffee in back of the cabinet. Text him before he gets cranky._

Obviously the second part was never meant to be seen, but it makes him smile stupidly, especially now; he knows very well he gets cranky without his morning coffee, and Marco knows it, too.

Not just that, but the note thing started because of Marco. Jean figured it was a weird domestic coupley thing, but he didn’t mind, so he ran with it.

The first time, Marco had left a note under the heavy geode for Jean. It read simple: “Don’t forget milk. I love you.”

Jean had been on his way out the door in a hurry, late for work one morning when Marco slept in since it was his day off, and he’d caught sight of it with surprise.

“Dork,” he’d murmured, but tucked the note into his pocket. It did actually help him remember to get milk, and then he’d left a note under the geode a few days later.

_“i bought that pumpernickel bread you like. it’s in the cabinet. it’s all yours cause it tastes weird. it’s not nearly as sweet as you._

_get it?_

_p.s. does this line mean I get laid tonight?”_

He had not gotten laid; he’s simply gotten smacked in the arm and informed as to why pumpernickel bread was superior to regular bread, since regular bread was apparently made of sugar.

However, during this entire explanation as Marco had made dinner, intermittently kissing Jean on the head, he’d had a ridiculous little smile on his face.

“I like the notes,” he’d said abruptly as they ate, looking at Jean. He hadn’t elaborated, and Jean hadn’t asked.

Instead, Jean had simply replied, “I like them, too.” 

After awhile, the notes left under the geode ranged from grocery shopping reminders to love notes. Sometimes Jean even got sappy, and those were the notes Marco cherished; but apparently, he also wrote down his own reminders on Jean’s notes.

Suddenly, as he stares at the note he found in Marco’s pocket, he has an idea.

*

The Bodts are having dinner in their formal dining room, a long table set with fancy china and serving platters. It almost seems like Thanksgiving, even though it’s just another weekend; but it’s obvious how much they’ve all missed Marco.

Jean is relatively sure he can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous, but he knows what he wants to do, and that he wants to do it now. Of course, planning the entire endeavor as he changed only a few minutes ago by himself in the attic, versus now sitting in front of Marco’s entire large, rambunctious family, is a bit different. 

The guest of honor himself is sitting next to the head of the table, and Jean is grateful there’s an empty chair next to Marco.

“I made a special dinner since it’s been so long since the two of you were here,” Mrs. Bodt says with a warm smile as Jean slides into the chair next to Marco, feeling sheepish he isn’t dressed more nicely.

“Thanks, Mom,” Marco mumbles, looking at Jean almost apologetically. “Uh, I didn’t know we were going formal.”

“It’s not formal!” she replies, her eyes wide. “It’s just the only room that will fit all of us if we have dinner together, which isn’t so often these days.”

There are six Bodt sisters of varying ages sitting in their chairs, Margit across from Jean staring at him unblinkingly, Mrs. Bodt looking back and forth between Jean and Marco curiously, and Mr. Bodt at her side, already reaching for a serving platter.

“You like mashed potatoes, right, Jean?” he asks conversationally, passing the serving plate in Jean’s direction. “Marco, he looks like he’s starving. Give your friend some food.”

That earns a quiet laugh, and then everyone relaxes, chatting amicably as the food is passed around. Margit hasn’t eaten yet, still staring at Jean, but he doesn’t feel quite so nervous when Marco nudges his foot affectionately.

It’s then, when Margit finally starts to eat, Mrs. Bodt is barking at Margery to put away her phone, and Mattie is whispering some secret into another sister’s ear while staring at Jean, that Jean hands Marco something under the table.

Marco looks surprised, raising his eyes with a question in them; but when Jean shrugs, Marco just nods and accepts the mystery item.

Conversation progresses normally after that. Mostly, both of them let questions be fired at the rest of the family, quietly enjoying the food; Jean is also heartened when Marco bumps his thigh and smiles a little.

More quickly than Jean’s expecting, dinner is over and the plates are being cleared; every platter is clean and there aren’t any leftovers. It’s a change from Jean’s house, where there are usually at least a few tupperware containers in the refrigerator after a big meal.

Marco’s family disappears all at once. Most of his sisters file into the living room to watch whatever show they’re currently interested in on TV, Margit helps her parents clear the table, and Margery sits off to the side in the foyer, scowling at nothing in particular with a pair of large headphones on.

“Who wants pie?” Mrs. Bodt calls after the table has been cleared and the candles blown out.

No one answers.

“Me!” Marco says weakly as he wanders into the kitchen, prepared for dish duty.

“You used to hide in your room,” Mrs. Bodt says fondly, smiling over her shoulder at Marco where she’s uncovered the pie and laying out plates. “It didn’t matter what kind of pie, usually… you always just wanted to study. So ambitious.”

Jean feels a little pang at this observation, until he looks over to see Marco’s hand shoved in his pocket; he has the item that Jean had passed him under the table.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he replies. Jean groans and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Marco just laughs, shrugging a little. “All work and no pie… makes me want pie.” 

Marco cheerfully ignores Jean’s disdain at his cheesy joke and turns to his mother. “I’m going to take some to the brood. I’ll be right back.”

He cuts some pieces of pie and places them on several plates, but for some reason, he looks nervous; Jean knows why when Marco’s hand seemingly unconsciously brushes the item stowed away secretly in his pocket.

“Should I add ice cream?” he asks conversationally, shifting his gaze toward the living room.

Marco mother tsks and shakes her head. “Anyone who wants ice cream has to come _out_ here with us, and be social.”

Marco laughs a little with a shrug, and given that there’s no way that’s happening, he carries the plates in his hands as well as balancing a few on his forearms (Marco’s part-time job in college was as a waiter) to deliver them to the army of sisters in the living room. He bypasses Margery, who looks up in annoyance when she thinks he’s going to try and talk to her, and Jean can’t help but commiserate. His mother was always trying to talk to him at that age, and all he wanted to do was listen to sad bastard music and dream about when he’d be rich and famous, and not in high school.

Jean takes a seat at the kitchen table, and he hears the staccato puff of the coffee maker where Marco’s father is brewing a fresh pot to go with dessert. 

As Jean helps load the dishwasher, there’s suddenly delighted cries from the living room about the arrival of pie, and then the creak of the floor in the hallway as Marco walks in the other direction, which means he’s probably gone to read the note in private. 

He still hasn’t returned by the time the dishwasher is loaded and the coffee is done, and they’re sitting around the table with cups and apple pie a la mode, waiting for Marco who has been absent a suspiciously long time now.

“So, Jean,” Marco’s father asks as he sips at his coffee, “what exactly do you do at your new job?”

Jean stammers out an answer, trying not to be distracted. “Oh, um…” He rubs the back of his head bashfully, staring down into his tea and trying to focus on the conversation.. “I draw things from archaeological digs for the Stohess Natural History Museum.”

“What interesting work,” Mr. Bodt replies. “And how do both of you like the new apartment, apart from Stohess itself? It can be a challenging place to live.”

Jean stares openly now, looking back and forth between Marco’s parents as if the question is a trap. “Um…” he replies dumbly.

“They’re not _married_ ,” Mrs. Bodt says in embarrassment, giving Jean an apologetic look.

Suddenly, as if on cue, Marco appears in the doorway to the kitchen, an incriminating piece of paper clutched in one hand, and a rock in the other.

“Yes,” he exhales, staring at Jean intently. There’s an emotional look on his face, but he stays where he is, waiting for a response.

“Yes?” Jean asks, biting his lip and staring down at his plate. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it right the first time.”

“Yes, what?” Mrs. Bodt asks, totally baffled as she looks back and forth between the two of them. “Did I miss something?”

“Mom,” Marco starts, clutching the heart-shaped rock in his hand tightly, “Jean and I are together.” Jean knows that action well—it means that Marco’s extremely nervous, his fingers tensing and untensing around the stone.

She still looks puzzled, looking back and forth between Jean and him, before turning to her husband for clarification. “Am I—”

Marco’s father actually looks less surprised than Jean would have expected. He calmly takes a bite of pie before looking up and meeting Marco’s eyes with a serious expression. “Did you wait so long to tell us because you thought we’d react badly?”

Marco’s mother finally catches on and her eyes widen. “Oh,” she says simply, “together.” She looks more shocked than judgmental, though.

“I didn’t know how you’d react,” Marco retorts defensively, frowning and taking a few steps back. “And…” he trails off, obviously searching for words. “We had some things to figure out.”

“Every relationship does,” his father replies, but then, he rises to approach Marco and put a hand on his shoulder. Marco looks totally taken aback as he looks back and forth between the hand on his shoulder and his father. “And this seems to be a trend. I’m sorry you kids felt so conflicted about telling us things like this, but I understand.”

“You kids?” Marco echoes, his eyes wide.

“Margery had a little talk with us earlier this year,” Mr. Bodt says simply, obviously not wanting to divulge his middle daughter’s private inner workings, which is yet another reason Jean is in awe of Marco’s parents. “She was seeing someone, and the other girl broke it off a few weeks ago.”

“It’s hard to come out,” Jean blurts as Marco continues to stare at his father, looking cornered, “even to each other.”

Marco’s father just nods, and gives Marco a pat on the shoulder. “We’ll always support you, Marco. You, and the rest of your siblings.” He drops his hand—ever the calm, diplomatic figure in the family—and glances toward Jean. “And just for the record, I approve.” 

“How long has this been going on?” Marco’s mother asks, apparently still caught on the revelation that they’re dating.

“Just under a year,” Jean replies honestly.

She glances at Jean with a wounded look in her eye. “So, when I asked you this morning about Marco, you lied to me?”

“No!” Jean immediately retorts, since he’d gone to great trouble not to outright lie. “I said he seemed happy, and he does.” He looks over at Marco, frowning a bit, but continues. “I didn’t think it was my place to say anything else right then, but I also didn’t want to lie.”

That earns a look of understanding rather than disappointment, and after a moment, she just nods. “Fair enough,” she says, but she still looks hesitant.

“There’s more,” Marco interjects, and Jean realizes what’s about to happen as he squeezes the rock.

At that moment, Margit strolls in with an empty plate that she places in the sink, not noticing the tense moment behind her transpiring at the kitchen table until she turns around to take it ll in.

It takes exactly five seconds for her to say, in her characteristically blunt way, “You finally told them?”

“You knew about this?” Mrs. Bodt demands, her eyes wide. If Jean isn’t mistaken, she actually looks a bit hurt.

“I guessed,” Margit corrects, raising an eyebrow. “From the moment we picked them up from the train station.” She shrugs, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I had my suspicions before that.”

“Wait,” Marco’s mother says, turning to Marco suddenly, “you said there’s more?” Both of Marco’s parents’ eyes dart down to the rock and note still clutched in Marco’s hand, and they all seem to hold their collective breath, including Jean.

Marco looks at Jean with a question in his eyes, and Jean just nods, silently exhaling. This is really happening.

“We’re engaged,” he blurts out unceremoniously, staring at his parents. “Um, that’s new, though.”

 _“Engaged?”_ Marco’s mother echoes in disbelief, turning to stare at Jean.

“Who asked whom?” Mr. Bodt inquires seriously, looking between them.

“I did,” Jean replies steadfastly. “I asked Marco to…” He sighs, deciding to be honest, and shakes his head. “I asked Marco to make it official, and I did it the wrong way. I’m an idiot.”

There seems to be something about the fact, though, that it was Jean who asked Marco, and not the other way around, that Mr. Bodt approves of.

“Did you go to Stohess with Jean because you were dating?” Mrs. Bodt asks, looking between them. Jean can see the same hesitance in her eyes as her husband’s, and Jean realizes finally that they’re worried for Marco.

“We weren’t dating yet,” Marco replies, his voice more confident now. “I went because I wanted to. Because…” he voice grows soft, and he looks down at the floor, biting his lip. “Because I didn’t want to be apart from him, whether we were dating or not.”

This settles into the conversation, and finally, Mrs. Bodt nods. “I understand,” she says, and Marco waits for more. There’s a beat of silence, until she jumps up and rounds the table to envelope Marco in a tight hug. “My baby’s getting married!” she cries, looking as if she’s already planning cake tastings and invitation stationery.

“Mom!” Marco groans in embarrassment. “We haven’t figured out the details yet.”

“When you said you did it the wrong way, what did you mean?” Margit asks suddenly, interrupting the jubilant scene as Marco tries to extract himself from his mother’s embrace, faintly blushing in embarrassment.

“I mean,” Jean says clearly, not afraid to be honest about his mistakes now, “that I didn’t ask him the right way, but I think I fixed it.” He gives Margit a meaningful look, and she nods in approval, as if to confirm that Jean has officially stopped being a “fuckboy.”

“He fixed it,” Marco confirms, his throat tightening as he holds up the rock and the note.

“What’s that?” Marco’s mother asks as she stares at the note. His father also looks at Jean in curiosity, and Margit just leans back in her chair with a grin, arms crossed, as if enjoying the show.

“A real proposal,” Jean replies, feeling his own face heat, “like you wanted.” He looks up to meet Marco’s dark eyes, and the sheer adoration there is almost overwhelming, an intense love directed at Jean. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it until now.”

“Read the note,” Margit suggests, still grinning. “I want to hear what he came up with.”

“Margit!” Marco retorts in mortification. “That’s private.”

“You can read it if you want,” Jean mumbles with a shrug, willing to sacrifice his dignity to give Marco a chance to finally share this with his family. The truth is, in a way, he wants Marco to read it aloud, to confirm that this is real, that Jean wrote the words and meant them. 

“Are you sure?” Marco asks softly, and Jean feels a little bump against his foot under the table, an unspoken question.

“Yeah,” Jean replies, nodding reassuringly. “I’m sure.”

Marco opens the note, and Jean is somewhat amused when he finally notices Marco’s mother watching this spectacle unfold, enraptured.

He starts to read it, his voice a little choked, and Jean stares down at the table self-consciously; but hearing Marco’s calm, familiar voice read his words feels good. 

“I’ll carry all your rocks for you, whether they’re ugly or diamonds,” he says, his voice wobbling, “but all of them are shitty compared to this cool one I found today. It’s for you, from me, and it’s always been yours.” Marco stops, biting his lip, and then lifts up the heart-shaped rock that’s clutched tightly in his hand.

There’s an extended silence as Mrs. Bodt blinks in surprise, staring at the rock, and then looking over at Jean; Mr. Bodt just smiles a little.

“Wow,” Margit finally says, breaking the surreal scene and looking impressed, “that was a proposal straight out of a movie. I didn’t know you had it in you, Kirschstein.”

“Margit!” Mrs. Bodt snaps disapprovingly, turning to stare at her oldest daughter with a further rebuke on her tongue. 

However, Margit ignores the look of outrage, instead standing up to stride over to Jean and hold out her hand. Jean just stares, unsure of what to do, so he offers his own hand. To his surprise, he’s pulled out of his chair with a strong handshake, and then Margit gives him an actual hug.

“Welcome to the family,” she says, slapping him on the back.

Suddenly, Jean feels another pair of arms wrap around him—it’s Marco’s mother, hugging him tightly. 

“I’m so happy for you two!” Marco’s mother says, tears shining in her eyes. “I’m so happy it’s _you,_ ” she adds, pulling away and separating the hug knot to look at Jean.

Jean’s throat tightens at the unexpected statement, and he nods awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Thanks,” he grunts, but then laughs weakly. “I’m happy it’s me, too.”

“Where’d you find that rock, anyway?” Margit asks, actual admiration in her voice. “I have to up my romance game.”

Jean groans and shakes his head, collapsing back into his chair and reaching for Marco’s hand across the table.

“Leave Jean alone,” Marco says fondly, laughing a little as their fingers entwine, “he deserves a break.”

“I only wish you had told us sooner so you didn’t feel like you were hiding all weekend,” Marco’s mother remarks as she rises to gather the empty dessert plates from the table. Her voice isn’t judgmental, so much as sad. “I understand, though.”

“You never have to hide from us,” Mr. Bodt speaks up. “We’re always here for you and your sisters, Marco.”

“Thanks,” Marco whispers, before stealing over to the other side of the table and settling into the seat next to Jean that his mother has vacated.

“We’re going to stay a few extra days,” Jean announces suddenly, taking Marco’s hand into his. It’s a relief to be able to indulge in the small displays of affection he’s so used to. “If that’s okay.”

“We’d love to have you stay for longer!” Mrs. Bodt enthuses, turning to grab an empty coffee cup and kiss Marco’s on the head. “If you can spare it.”

Jean squeezes Marco’s hand, thinking about how a ring would look on one of his fingers—since he knows that’s what Marco actually wants—and he nods. 

News travels fast in the Bodt household, and everyone knows what’s going on within fifteen minutes. Mattie looks mortified and slightly pale, until Marco just shrugs at her with a half a grin, and she finally relaxes.

“Sorry,” he says, grinning boyishly as they sit in the living room, “I got there first.”

“Ew!” Mattie squeals, retreating from the living room quickly. “I don’t want to date my in-law!”

“I guess she’s over me,” Jean remarks wryly.

By the time the evening has quieted, Marco is sitting on the couch with Jean, head leaning comfortably against a shoulder with Jean’s arm around him. It feels good to not have to hide in front of Marco’s family.

“All right, girls,” Mrs. Bodt says, appearing in the entrance of the living room, directing her words at the two youngest sisters who are seven and eleven. “Time for bed!”

They both give looks that seem to indicate they’re about to beg for a later bedtime, until Marco smoothly intervenes. “I’ll tuck you guys in, if you go up now.”

That earns delighted squeals and a cacophony of footsteps as they rush up the stairs. 

Jean can hear Margit snort from around the corner in her office. “Watch out,” she warns, but her voice is playful, “he likes kids _a lot_ , Jean.”

Jean knows he doesn’t have the same kind of latent talents with kids that Marco does. Whether it’s because he grew up with a large family, or it’s simply his inherent nature, Jean is unsure. 

“I never said I didn’t,” Jean retorts defensively, rolling his eyes, and focusing again on whatever television show is playing as Marco stands up to make good on his promise. As he disappears up the stairs to make good on his promise to tuck in his youngest siblings, though, an unexpected, sulky voice comes from Jean’s right.

“Do you even _want_ kids?” 

Margery is sitting at the end of the couch, the only one left in the room Jean suddenly realizes, and Margit doesn’t say anything even though the door to her office is still open.

“God!” Margery snaps in Margit’s direction. “Stop listening to us! Why is everyone so nosy in this family?”

“Fine, fine,” Margit replies pleasantly, obviously not at all intimidated by her younger sister’s vitriol. Jean isn’t sure if she’s aware of how identical they sound—though Margery is a little less scary at this point in her life—but he privately finds it amusing.

There’s the quiet click of the door to Margit’s office shutting, and then Margery just sits there staring at him, headphones hanging around her neck now.

“Um,” Jean replies awkwardly. “Why?” If there’s one person in this entire family he’s probably least qualified to talk to or try to appease, it’s Margery.

She shakes her head, mouth downturned, and rolls her eyes.

“Why are you so pissed off?” Jean blurts out in response, meeting her eyes and and feeling cornered.

They just stare at each other, until Margery blinks, as if not expecting the question. Jean braces for impact, rebuking himself for his own kneejerk reaction.

“Because everyone in this family sucks,” she huffs, crossing her arms petulantly over her chest. “All this shit is so lame.”

Jean cocks his head to the side, a little mystified at this vehement statement. “Uh, I don’t think you’re supposed to swear.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“So I guess the answer isn’t no,” Jean replies, trying to tread lightly.

“What?” she snaps, giving him a sidelong glare.

“What you asked before, about kids,” Jean explains, sighing and crossing his own arms over his chest in what he realizes a minute too late is a mirror gesture of the angry fifteen year old in front of him. “It’s not that I don’t want them, but I think I suck with them. I’m definitely no one’s mom.”

That seems to stump her for a moment, and she twiddles the wire of her headphones, fingernails painted with chipped polish.

“So, you’re going to really marry my brother? Does that mean he’s gay?”

Jean snorts, and that seems to surprise Margery when she starts; but he grins mildly, shrugging. “I don’t know. I think I’m the first guy he’s ever dated, but that’s different than being gay. You just have to ask him.”

She seems to ponder this answer for a moment, and Jean waits for the verdict, expecting to be jumped on. 

Instead, she mutters, “Being gay sucks.”

Jean remembers suddenly that Marco’s father had mentioned that Margery had not only “come out” (whatever that meant in her case), but that she’d gotten dumped.

“It’s definitely harder than being straight,” Jean replies with a shrug. “So, what are you listening to?”

She gives him a suspicious look, as if expecting to be condescended to—Jean knows that exact expectation, since people did the same thing to him when he was a teenager—and he just waits. 

“Our song,” she blurts out suddenly, and then a blush immediately flares up in her cheeks. “My girlfriend and mine.” She pauses, but then slowly grits out, “Um, ex-girlfriend.”

“Uh huh,” Jean offers uncritically, raising an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I Kissed A Girl,” she says, “by Katy Perry.”

Jean just stares at her, reserving judgment. Given Margery’s entire demeanor, he was expecting something a lot more downbeat than Katy Perry. “Oh,” he says. “Um, that fits, I guess.”

“I hate this fucking song,” she says miserably, hands clenched in her lap. “But it’s her favorite.”

“Getting over people is really hard,” Jean offers sincerely. “I suck at it. Good thing your brother hasn’t dumped me yet, because I’d probably be listening to Katy Perry, too.”

“Marco loves Katy Perry.”

“Marco also loves cold pancake batter and Minion memes,” Jean retorts with a raised eyebrow. “Marco is not always to be trusted.”

That earns an actual laugh, and she shrugs. “I guess.”

“You should come visit us sometime,” Jean offers carefully, not looking at her and trying to appear casual. “We have a guest room.”

She shoots him an incredulous look, but he just keeps his face neutral. “I’d love to get out of this hick town,” she grumbles.

Jean laughs, shrugging a little. “I felt the same way when I was your age, and I lived in Trost. It was like the suburbs. Stohess is pretty cool.”

“Um, maybe,” she replies, feigning disinterest. “I’m off for spring break in a few months.”

“Cool,” Jean nods. “Let’s do it.”

“Wait, really?” she asks, a disbelieving expression on her face.

“Sure, why not?” Jean decides to follow his instincts and add his thoughts on Margery’s ex-girlfriend’s taste in music. “Also, Katy Perry sucks. Throw that shit away if it’s just making you feel worse.”

Before the words are even completely out, he’s cringing internally; but to his surprise, Margery actually _laughs_ and opens her phone.

“There,” she says after a few swipes of her fingers, “I deleted it. I hated that stupid song from the beginning.”

“So, maybe you weren’t meant to be,” he remarks with a shrug.

“How do you know it’ll work out with my brother, then?” she snarks back, though Jean can tell it’s an actual question as well as a defensive response.

“I don’t,” he replies simply. “But I know that’s what I want, whether I’m good with kids or not.”

She just eyes him for a moment, as if testing the legitimacy of his statement and searching for insincerity.

“Dump him,” she deadpans. “He likes Minions.”

It feels good to laugh with Margery, both of them relaxing as she seizes the remote control and changes the TV to something she wants to watch. Maybe this is part of the reason Marco likes kids, or at least, some kind of person who isn’t an adult.

“You’re serious about coming to visit?” she asks after a few minutes, side eyeing Jean suspiciously.

“Sure. We’ll show you all the gay clubs in Stohess,” he deadpans.

“Jean!” Marco sounds downright horrified as he enters the living room, but his outrage is drowned out by Margery’s laughter.

She gets up, still laughing, and Marco just stares at her as she leaves the room. “You like Minions?” she asks him, her voice simultaneously critical and horrified as she ascends the stairs. “Where did Mom and Dad go wrong, Marco?”

Marco just continues to stare, his mouth practically hanging open as he looks back and forth between Margery and Jean, until she disappears from sight.

“Gay clubs?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than it usually is.

“I was joking,” Jean retorts, rolling his eyes. “I think I just made friends with your second scariest sister.”

Marco blinks at him, cocking his head to the side. “I’ve been trying to get her to talk to me in something other than one word answers for years,” he says in awe. “How’d you get her to talk to you?”

“I dunno,” Jean replies with a shrug. “I just talked to her like an adult.”

“It’s almost like you’re…” Marco says, and his voice is amused now as he finally takes a seat next to Jean, “good with kids, Jean.”

“Shut up,” Jean replies, holding his arm out for Marco to snuggle against him on the couch. “Hope you don’t mind Margery is coming to visit us in the spring.”

_“What?”_

“Don’t ask. And we’re hiding your Katy Perry music collection.”

“I…” Marco sighs, shaking his head and apparently giving up understand this anomaly, and settles against Jean. “I don’t even know.”

Jean laughs a little, raising his hand to stroke his fingers through Marco’s hair. “Are you going to be okay to go back to Stohess in a few days?” he asks hesitantly, dreading the response for a moment.

Marco sounds sleepy as he replies through a yawn, “Yeah. It’ll be good to be home and in our own bed.”

And that’s all that Jean needs to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a 


End file.
